-  THREE  - 
MIDNIGHT 
•STORIES- 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
From  the  Bequest 

of 
DOROTHY  K.  THOMAS 


THIS  EDITION  IS  LIMITED 
TO  FIVE  HUNDRED  COPIES, 
PRINTED  FROM  TYPE,  OF 
WHICH  THIS  COPY 
NO. 


THREE 
MIDNIGHT  STORIES 


THREE 
MIDNIGHT        )RD 


Portrait  with  Autograph 


Ni 

RY  CO. 


THREE 
MIDNIGHT  STORIES 


BY 

ALEXANDER  W.  DRAKE 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1916 


Copyright,  1893,  1894,   1916,  by 
THE  CEKTURY  Co. 

Published,  October,  1916 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  MEMORY ix 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine 


THE  YELLOW  GLOBE  .  .  .  .  .  3 

INTERLUDE — KENSAL  GREEN  .  .  £8 

THE  CURIOUS  VEHICLE  .  .  .  .  .  31 

INTERLUDE — PADEREWSKI  .  .  .  7£ 

THE  LOOSENED  CORD  .  75 


ALEXANDER  W.  DRAKE — THE  MAN 

A  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHY  .      .      .      .      .      .      93 

Clarence  Clough  Duel 

AN  APPRECIATION      ......    103 

William  Fayal  Clarke 

A  WORD  OF  TRIBUTE       .....   113 
Robert   Underwood  Johnson 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Portrait  with  Autograph  .       .       Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Alexander  W.  Drake ix 

From  a  photograph  by  Albert  Bigelow  Paine 

A  Corner  of  the  Drawing  Room  .  .  1 
Library  in  the  Residence  of  A.  W.  Drake  £9 
A  Doorway  Bottle-Cabinet  .  .  .  .  71 

Portrait,  .       .  , -      91 

From  a  photograph  by  Hollinger 

East  Side  of  Dining  Room  .  .  , .  .103 
West  Side  of  Dining  Room  .  .  .  . 


Decorations:     Bird  Cages,  Bottles,  and  Little  Ships, 
from  objects   in   Mr.   Drake's   Collections. 


[EMORY 


It  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  that  I  read,  in  closely  succeeding 
>bers  of  "The  Century"  ma 

ble 

Alexander  W.  Drake 

ife; 

g  bird,  whose 

attached  to  a  miniature  balloon  had 
d  upward  to  the  stars.     I  read  each 
of  these  stories  several  times,  and  after 
that  waited  from  month  to  month  for 
others  e  same  hand.     But  there 

were  no  more.     I  often  wondered  why. 
For  <ed  to  me  not  as  other 

stories.  They  were  laid  in  the  wor] 
men  and  ordinary  affairs,  but  they  ^ 
not  of  it.  Neither  were  they  of 


A  MEMORY 


It  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  that  I  read,  in  closely  succeeding 
numbers  of  "The  Century"  magazine, 
three  stories.  One  was  of  a  man  whose 
life's  aim  was  to  express  a  veritable 
haunted  house;  another,  of  an  artist  in 
quest  of  the  perfect  halo  that  would 
symbolize  adoration  for  a  dead  wife; 
the  third  told  of  a  singing  bird,  whose 
cage  attached  to  a  miniature  balloon  had 
sailed  upward  to  the  stars.  I  read  each 
of  these  stories  several  times,  and  after 
that  waited  from  month  to  month  for 
others  from  the  same  hand.  But  there 
were  no  more.  I  often  wondered  why. 

For  they  seemed  to  me  not  as  other 

stories.     They  were  laid  in  the  world  of 

men  and  ordinary  affairs,  but  they  were 

not  of  it.     Neither  were  they  of  any 

ix 


A  MEMORY 


imagined  fairyland.  They  were  of  that 
country  where  the  ideal  becomes  the 
only  reality — the  land  of  art.  I  think 
I  shall  not  try  to  describe  the  effect  those 
three  stories  had  upon  me.  Certainly 
they  lifted  me  for  a  little  while  out  of 
the  general  commonness  of  life — re 
vealed  for  a  moment  a  vision  of  a  world 
that  lies  only  a  touch  away  yet  remains 
for  the  most  part  hidden,  because  we 
walk  in  blindness  and  miss  the  magic 
door. 

I  had  never  heard  of  the  writer  of 
those  stories.  They  were  signed  Alex 
ander  W.  Drake,  and,  seeing  the  name 
nowhere  repeated,  it  presently  passed 
from  my  mind.  The  stories,  however, 
were  unforgettable. 

ii 

It  was  a  year  or  two  later,  I  think, 
that  I  found  myself  in  New  York  City, 
likewise  engaged  in  the  trade  of  story 
telling  and,  in  the  course  of  time  and 


A  MEMORY 


fortune,  in  a  position  that  brought  me 
into  frequent  association  with  the  edi 
tors  of  the  "Century"  magazine.  Among 
them  was  the  Art  Director,  whom 
I  learned  to  know  as  A.  W.  Drake, 
a  man  of  such  modest  and  gentle  man 
ner  that  I  should  never  have  known,  had 
I  not  been  told,  that  to  him  more  than 
to  any  other  was  due  the  advancement 
and  refinement  of  modern  magazine 
illustration.  He  had  been  an  engraver, 
they  said,  and  in  1870,  when  "Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly"  was  founded,  had  taken 
charge  of  the  Art  Department  of  that 
magazine.  Later,  "St.  Nicholas"  had 
been  issued,  the  name  "Scribner's 
Monthly"  was  changed  to  the  "Cen 
tury,"  and  these  two  publications  under 
Drake's  art  direction  had  set  the  stan 
dard  of  illustration  for  the  publishing 
world.  How  unpretentious,  how  hu 
man  and  lovable  he  was!  Those  who 
have  done  most  in  the  world  are  usually 
like  that. 

xi 


A  MEMORY 


And  Drake  was  so  much  more  than 
an  art  director.  His  religion — the 
true  religion — was  harmony,  and  his 
recognition  of  it  so  keen,  his  taste  so 
exquisite,  that  he  lived,  as  it  seemed, 
in  a  world  of  his  own.  It  was  a  demo 
cratic  world,  wherein  the  rarest  and  the 
humblest  things  of  life  were  likely  to  be 
ranked  as  of  equal  value.  In  whatever 
form,  beauty  could  not  disguise  itself 
from  him.  Some  tint  or  grace  of  line 
in  the  commonest  article  of  daily  use 
made  it  for  him  a  treasure.  A  bit  of 
cheap  fabric  he  recognized  as  a  picture ; 
an  old  band  box  in  an  attic  he  found 
to  be  precious,  not  only  for  its  breath 
of  romance  but  often  for  some  refine 
ment  of  color  or  quaintness  of  design ;  a 
crude,  faded  signboard  was  to  him  a  rare 
decoration,  discarded  bottles  in  an  ash- 
heap  were  as  jewels  in  a  matrix — he 
could  not  pass  them  by.  Furbished 
and  skilfully  placed  in  his  beautiful 
home,  visitors  likewise  were  led  to  ap- 
xii 


A  MEMORY 


predate  the  super-value  of  these  things 
—to  see  in  a  case  of  variegated  glass 
shapes,  with  the  light  shining  through, 
a  glory  of  hue,  and  tint,  and  form  hith 
erto  undreamed.  Along  with  his  thou 
sand  treasures  of  great  worth — tapes 
tries,  brasses,  paintings,  jewel  cases, 
finger  rings  and  the  like — these  humbler 
gems  held  rank  and,  for  him  at  least, 
equal  charm;  because  he  saw  them 
bathed  always  in  the  light  of  his  world — 
the  "light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land" 
— the  light  that  makes  the  ideal  reality, 
and  beauty  alone  worth  while. 

in 

One  day,  when  I  had  known  Alex 
ander  Drake  for  as  much  as  five  years, 
and  had  long  been  proud  to  claim  his 
friendship,  we  were  going  down  the 
Century  elevator  together  when  he  made 
a  kindly  reference  to  something  I  had 
printed  that  month  in  the  magazine. 
Then,  a  moment  later,  with  great  diffi 
dence,  he  added: 

xiii 


A  MEMORY 


"I — I  tried  to  write  some  stories, 
once,  a  good  while  ago — but  I  gave  it 
up.  I  wrote  three  and  got  them 
printed.  You  probably  never  saw 
them." 

I  was  about  to  say  no,  but  then  I  hesi 
tated.  My  subconsciousness  was  spin 
ning  backward,  and  from  somewhere 
flashed  the  name  "Alexander  W. 
Drake,"  with  those  three  stories  to 
which  it  had  been  attached  so  long  be 
fore.  I  had  never  forgotten  the  stories 
— I  had  only  mislaid  their  label.  I 
knew  instantly,  then,  as  I  should  have 
known  all  the  time. 

"Yes!"  I  said,  grasping  his  hand. 
"You  are  the  man  who  wrote  the  stories 
of  the  haunted  house,  the  halo,  and  the 
singing  bird!  Alexander  W.  Drake, 
of  course!  I  remember  perfectly. 
Why  I  did  not  remember  before  is  one 
of  the  mysteries.  Those  wonderful 
stories!" 

I  overflowed  in  praise  of  them,  and  he 

xiv 


A  MEMORY 


seemed  pleased,  for  he  saw  that  I  was 
sincere.  At  luncheon  we  reviewed  them 
and  I  begged  him  to  do  others  of  the 
sort.  He  admitted  there  were  more 
stories  he  wished  to  write — that  he 
hoped  to  write,  someday,  when  he  found 
the  time.  He  was  not  an  author,  he 
said;  the  doubt  of  his  literary  method 
made  him  hesitate.  The  stories  already 
published,  he  thought,  had  made  little 
impression.  I  reminded  him  how  they 
had  impressed  at  least  one  reader,  who 
had  watched  month  after  month  for 
more  from  the  same  pen.  There  must 
be  others,  I  said,  like  myself. 

IV 

But  he  never  wrote  the  other  stories. 
Often  we  talked  of  them,  and  as  often 
he  promised  someday  to  set  them  down. 
By  and  by  it  was  evident  that  he  would 
never  write  them.  He  was  old,  and  he 
was  no  longer  in  health. 

And  so  one  day  he  left  us,  taking 
xv 


A  MEMORY 


them  with  him,  and  all  we  have  now  are 
those  three,  written  out  of  his  first 
literary  impulse,  so  long  ago.  They 
are  akin  to  those  art  collections  he 
made,  for  they  include  the  everyday 
objects  of  life,  but  glorified:  a  show 
bottle  in  a  druggist's  window,  yet  lit 
with  magic;  a  "queer  box-like  wagon" 
on  Broadway,  but  driving  through 
dreamland ;  a  miniature  balloon  bearing 
a  caged  bird,  but  it  carries  us  to  the 
brink  of  paradise. 


A  Corner  of  the  Drawing  Room 


THE  YELLOW  GLOBE 


THREE 
MIDNIGHT  STORIES 

THE  YELLOW  GLOBE 

RETURNING  from  the  club  at  an 
hour  long  past  midnight,  I  noticed 
a  peculiar-looking  person  of  medium 
height,  somewhat  angular,  with  sallow, 
dark  complexion,  dressed  like  any  other 
well-to-do  person,  gazing  intently  at  the 
large  yellow  globe  of  colored  fluid  in  a 
druggist's  window.     The  streets  were 
deserted,  and  his  whole  attention  seemed 
3 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

riveted  on  that  particular  yellow  spot. 

A  few  nights  later,  about  one  o'clock, 
I  saw  the  man  again  at  the  same  win 
dow  ;  so,  taking  refuge  in  the  shadow  of 
a  house  opposite,  I  watched  him  un 
observed.  He  stood  looking  earnestly 
at  the  bright  yellow  center  of  the  large 
globe.  Now  he  held  his  finger  out  as 
though  he  were  trying  some  effect,  or 
placed  his  hand  in  silhouette  against 
the  bright  background.  Then  he 
moved  forward  and  backward,  with  his 
head  bent  first  on  one  side  and  then  on 
the  other,  as  though  he  were  looking  for 
something  beyond  and  through  the  fluid. 
At  last  he  walked  away,  casting  glances 
backward  at  the  fascinating  yellow 
light,  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

A  week  passed,  and  I  saw  him  for 
the  third  time  again  scrutinizing  the 
yellow  globe.  When  he  left  I  followed 
4 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

him,  and  as  we  passed  a  street-lamp  I 
accosted  him.  At  first  I  thought  he  re 
sented  it,  but  after  a  moment  I  ventured 
to  say,  "I  have  observed  you  gazing  into 
the  druggist's  window,  and  I  must  say 
my  curiosity  has  been  excited  to  know 
what  you  find  of  such  interest  in  a  drug 
gist's  yellow  light." 

Then  we  walked  on  for  some  blocks 
in  silence,  and  I  thought  I  had  offended 
him;  but  after  a  while  he  said  slowly: 
"The  hope  of  my  life  is  to  a  certain  ex 
tent  bound  up  in  that  yellow  spot,  the 
center  of  that  globe.  But  pardon  me, 
you  are  a  total  stranger,  and  no  one 
but—" 

Just  then  I  interrupted  him  by  re 
marking,  "What  a  beautiful  effect  of 
light  through  the  street,  and  how  soft 
and  velvety  the  shadows  look!" 

There  was  another  long  pause,  and 
5 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

then  he  said,  "You  seem  to  take 
pleasure  in  the  effects  of  light  and 
shade." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  answered;  "I  really  en 
joy  nature  very  much." 

"What  would  you  think  of  pursuing 
an  effect  year  after  year,  as  I  have 
done?"  he  asked. 

Now  we  were  fairly  launched,  and  I 
noticed  as  we  passed  the  various  gas 
lights  what  a  peculiar,  wistful,  far-away 
look  the  man  had,  and  what  a  thor 
oughly  artistic  make-up.  I  also  noticed 
that  at  every  turn  of  the  street  he 
seemed  to  be  looking  for  something. 
He  would  pause  now  and  then,  and 
stand  in  utter  silence,  watching  some 
unusual  effect  in  the  same  intent  man 
ner  with  which  he  had  looked  at  the 
druggist's  light.  In  the  meantime  we 
were  getting  into  narrower  streets,  and 
6 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

as  the  shadows  of  the  tall  buildings 
partly  hid  us,  he  would  give  me  bits  of 
conversation,  always  on  nature  or  kin 
dred  subjects. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "the  mistake  that 
most  painters  make,  especially  the  real 
ists,  is  that  they  paint  nature  as  they 
think  they  see  it.  But  what  of  it?  'If 
art  is  not  more  than  nature,  it  is  not  art.' 
Why,"  said  he,  "look  at  the  romantic 
school,  both  old  and  modern.  Was  it 
not  always  the  embodiment  of  an  idea? 
Did  they  not  always  make  Nature  do 
their  bidding,  with  as  much  or  as  little 
of  herself  as  they  chose?  There  is 
Monticelli — what  a  wealth  of  beautiful 
color!  He  takes  what  he  wants,  and 
adds  his  own  conception  of  beauty  of 
color,  so  that  you  get  his  groups  of  fig 
ures  rich  and  glowing  and  harmonious. 
So  with  Delacroix,  so  with  Turner. 
7 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

Look  at  his  'Slave  Ship.'  All  these 
men  borrowed  from  nature  so  far  as 
they  chose  to  embody  their  own  idea  of 
what  they  wished  to  express." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the 
lower  part  of  the  city,  and  the  streets 
became  even  narrower  and  the  odors 
more  disagreeable.  There  was  a  sense 
of  great  coolness,  like  the  wind  from 
the  water.  On  we  walked.  I  became 
more  and  more  interested,  and  occasion 
ally  made  a  remark  to  keep  the  conver 
sation  going,  while  my  companion 
stopped  from  time  to  time  to  watch 
some  new  effect,  as  though  he  were 
afraid  something  would  escape  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  have  spent  years  in 
an  experiment  which  I  hope  soon  to 
complete.  I  have  walked  the  streets  by 
day  and  night;  I  have  sailed  on  rivers; 
I  have  looked  through  old  doorways, 
8 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

have  studied  all  kinds  of  vegetation  and 
tree-forms  suited  to  my  idea  and  to  my 
notion  of  sky  effects, — old  ironwork, 
old  houses,  old  fences  and  windows, — in 
fact,  all  nature  has  been  to  me  a  great 
storehouse  from  which  to  select  my 
material." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  river 
front,  and  although  long  past  midnight, 
I  was  so  much  interested  in  finding  out 
what  manner  of  man  I  had  chanced 
upon  that  I  would  gladly  have  walked 
until  daylight.  I  feared  every  moment 
that  he  would  bid  me  good  night ;  but  if 
anything,  he  grew  more  confidential. 
My  chance  remark  about  effects  had  evi 
dently  won  him,  for  some  reason.  As 
we  walked  on,  the  spars  and  vessels  at 
the  wharves  were  almost  black  against 
the  sky,  while  the  lights  twinkled  across 
the  river,  and  the  stars  shone  overhead. 
9 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

Suddenly  we  turned  a  sharp  corner,  and 
came  to  a  great  pile  of  old  buildings 
with  steep  slate  roofs — evidently  in 
their  better  days  sail-lofts.  And  now, 
in  the  gloom  of  one  of  the  tallest  of 
these  buildings,  he  stopped,  and,  I 
thought,  was  about  to  say  good  night. 
For  a  time  he  stood  as  though  he  were 
thinking  what  he  had  better  do.  Fi 
nally  he  asked:  "Will  you  come  to  my 
room?  It  is  up  many  flights  of  stairs, 
but  I  think  you  may  perhaps  be  in 
terested  in  what  I  have  to  show  you." 

As  we  entered  the  door,  which  he 
unlocked  with  an  old-fashioned  iron 
key,  he  said:  "Give  me  your  hand. 
This  building  is  unoccupied  at  night, 
with  the  exception  of  myself  and  a 
watchman,  who  has  a  small  room  on  the 
ground  floor."  So  saying,  he  led  me  up 
the  creaking  stairs,  in  absolute  dark- 
10 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

ness.  A  strong  smell  of  oakum  and  tar 
pervaded  the  place.  On  reaching  the 
top  floor,  both  of  us  out  of  breath,  he 
fumbled  for  another  key,  with  which  he 
unlocked  the  door  of  his  room. 

Then  he  excused  himself,  and  left  me 
standing  in  darkness  while  he  proceeded 
to  strike  a  light.  What  a  curious  room 
it  was!  An  enormous  loft,  with  a 
peaked  roof,  and  horizontal  beams  join 
ing  the  sides  of  the  building,  and  sev 
eral  windows  of  medium  size — evidently 
an  old  sail-loft,  but  now  filled  with  a 
most  extraordinary  collection  of  queer 
objects.  At  one  end  of  the  room  were 
large  panes  of  glass  set  in  upright, 
movable  frames,  some  of  them  smeared 
over  with  a  peculiar  mixture.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  room  was  a  long,  plain 
wooden  table,  and  at  its  extreme  end 
stood  one  of  the  panes  of  glass.  Back 
11 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

of  this  I  noticed  a  globe  of  yellow  fluid, 
something  like  those  used  in  the  drug 
gist's  window,  but  not  so  large.  Back 
of  the  globe  again  was  a  small  lamp. 
In  another  corner  of  the  room  was  a 
gigantic  thistle,  now  dead,  planted  in  a 
large  flower-pot.  Near  it  I  saw  a 
stuffed  blue  heron.  But,  most  interest 
ing  of  all,  at  the  extreme  end  of  another 
deal  table  was  a  model  in  clay  of  what 
seemed  to  be  an  old  English  manor- 
house,  noble  in  proportion,  exquisite  in 
line,  and  with  little  glass  windows. 
Back  of  this  model  was  one  of  the  large 
upright  frames,  holding  a  pane  of  yel 
low  glass.  Here  and  there  were  small 
models  of  fences,  miniature  bits  of  iron 
work,  gateways,  etc.  On  the  walls 
were  nailed  the  most  eccentric  sketches. 
There  were  gigantic  studies  of  weeds, 
foreground  plants  done  with  strong  ef- 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

fects  in  charcoal,  and  at  one  end  of  the 
room  a  water-color  drawing  on  brown 
paper  of  a  great  rose-tree,  like  an  en 
larged  rose-bush.  From  the  ceiling 
hung  globes  filled  with  different-colored 
fluids,  and  old  ship-lanterns,  evidently 
for  some  use,  not  objects  of  bric-a-brac. 
In  other  words,  I  had  been  admitted 
into  an  immense  workshop,  where  every 
thing  had  its  purpose  for  the  work  in 
hand  only.  I  noticed  that  a  small  por 
tion  of  the  room  was  screened  off,  prob 
ably  as  a  bedroom.  Near  the  stove,  on 
one  side,  was  a  cheap  round  table,  on 
which  were  a  book  or  two  and  some 
newspapers,  as  well  as  several  new  clay 
pipes. 

I  have  given  only  an  idea  of  my  first 
hasty  survey  of  the  room.     I  was  con 
stantly  discovering  new  objects  of  in 
terest.     Several  large,  flat,  white  por- 
13 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

celain  dishes,  with  lips  at  the  end, 
seemed  to  have  held  colored  liquids  of 
various  kinds,  which  had  dried,  leav 
ing  a  sediment  in  the  bottom.  Many 
sheets  of  drawing-paper  on  stretchers 
were  standing  about  the  room.  This 
was  not  the  den  of  an  elegant  dilettante, 
but  the  workshop  of  a  man  in  earnest 
about  something. 

And  now,  as  we  settled  down  in  the 
large  leather-covered  arm-chairs,  and 
the  long  clay  pipes  were  lighted,  my 
strange  companion  became  more  con 
fidential,  although  it  was  plain  to  be 
seen  that  by  nature  he  was  a  recluse, 
and  perhaps  a  brooding,  melancholy 
man.  After  looking  me  over  intently, 
as  though  he  were  studying  my  first  im 
pression  of  the  place,  he  began: 

"You  are  evidently  much  surprised 
and  bewildered  by  the  mass  of  objects 
14 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

with  which  I  am  surrounded,  but  they 
all  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  They  all 
have  their  place  in  a  new  creation  I  am 
evolving.  They  have  been  collected,  at 
great  expense  of  time  and  trouble,  to 
help  me  carry  out  the  idea  I  am  striv 
ing  to  express.  Let  me  explain. 
First,  I  wished  to  render  a  haunted 
house  which  should  be  not  only  uncanny 
and  weird,  but  beautiful  as  well;  in  fact, 
so  beautiful  that  at  first  you  would  miss 
the  horrible  and  mysterious,  and  notice 
the  beautiful  only.  How  many  effects 
I  have  studied  for  this  alone !  The  sil 
ver-gray,  cold  effect  was  the  one  I  had 
first  thought  of,  as  conveying  an  im 
pression  of  weirdness ;  but  I  finally  set 
tled  on  a  scheme  in  which  the  whole  pic 
ture  should  be  flooded  in  golden  light, 
but  a 

Light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land — 
15 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

something  of  the  effect  that  you  might 
possibly  see  on  an  Indian-summer  day, 
when  you  feel  an  awful  stillness  in  na 
ture  ;  when  the  little  birds  forget  to  sing, 
and  sit  in  the  sunshine  as  though  they 
were  paralyzed;  when  even  the  trees 
and  flowers  and  all  growing  things  seem 
to  be  under  some  magic  spell;  when,  as 
you  start  to  walk,  you  suddenly  stand 
still  as  if  fascinated  by  the  sunlight; 
when  the  motion  of  everything  in  nature 
seems  suspended.  You  can  hardly  un 
derstand,"  he  added,  "what  this  haunted 
house  means  to  me.  Windows  have 
grown  to  have  human  looks,  at  times  al 
most  terrible.  Old  fences  and  iron 
work  have  as  keen  expressions  as  indi 
viduals.  In  fact,  this  whole  house 
wears  its  personality  until  I  am  often 
deeply  depressed  by  it.  Ah,  I  have  had 
my  life's  sorrow  and  trouble,  and  hor- 
16 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

rible — "  He  stopped  suddenly.  Did 
I  observe  a  faint  gleam  of  something 
like  a  pained,  agonized  look  in  the  sud 
den  expression  of  his  eyes  and  face  ?  If 
so,  it  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  the 
soft,  beautiful  look  returned,  although 
he  seemed  a  trifle  embarrassed. 

"Yes,"  he  continued;  "I  have  worked 
many  years  at  this  haunted  house.  All 
there  is  in  me  shows  itself  here  to  one 
who  can  read  it,  in  its  various  moods  and 
parts ;  sorrow,  love,  hope,  forgiveness — 
all  are  expressed  here ;  and  if  I  can  leave 
behind  me  this  one  great  picture,  I  shall 
be  satisfied,  even  if  I  never  do  another. 
How  long  I  have  worked,  and  how  ear 
nestly  I  have  studied  for  this  result! 
Do  you  see  those  globes  filled  with  fluid, 
and  those  upright  panes  of  glass  set  in 
frames?  They  are  all  parts  of  my  ex 
periment;  all  yellow  sunsets  and  pecul- 
17 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

iar  effects  of  yellow  light :  yellow  lights 
shining  through  mists  and  fogs.  Why, 
look  here!"  and  he  handed  me  a  large 
sketch-book  filled  with  hundreds  of 
studies.  In  one  the  trees  appeared  in 
silhouette  against  a  sunset  sky;  in 
another  there  would  be  only  a  gigantic 
thistle,  or  a  great  rank  weed,  with  the 
sky  for  a  background.  "The  house," 
he  said,  "was  not  so  difficult  a  matter, 
for  I  had  in  memory  a  beautiful  old 
manor-house  with  its  quaint  gables  and 
angles  and  picturesque  windows." 

Was  it  a  look  of  horror  on  the  man's 
face  as  he  spoke  of  the  windows?  Af 
ter  an  awkward  silence  he  resumed: 
"Yes ;  I  have  thought,  and  planned,  and 
worked  over  this  picture  for  years." 
Then,  as  we  smoked  in  silence,  I  had  a 
good  opportunity  to  observe  him  more 
minutely.  It  was  evident  that  gentle 
18 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

blood  ran  in  his  veins.  His  head  was 
massive  and  strong;  there  was  an  in 
describable  softness  about  his  dark  eyes, 
although  they  showed  latent  fire.  He 
had  a  great  mass  of  luxuriant  black 
hair;  his  beard  and  mustache  were 
rather  long,  and  very  becoming.  But 
now  he  seemed  to  feel  my  glances,  and 
his  manner  became  nervous  and  agi 
tated.  When  he  again  raised  his  eyes 
to  mine  they  had  grown  cold  and  hard. 

"To  return  to  my  favorite  subject," 
he  said,  "I  am  going  to  have  my  vege 
tation  on  a  grand  scale.  I  will  have 
thistles  as  large  as  trees  if  they  suit  my 
purpose.  Rose-bushes  shall  be  rose- 
trees." 

"But  the  air  of  mystery  and  weird- 
ness — how  are  you  going  to  manage 
that?"  I  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  me  at  once,  but 
19 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

after  a  while  said  slowly:  "The  myste 
rious  will  be  there,  whatever  else  is  lack 
ing;  and  I  intend  to  get  such  an  effect 
that  if  innocent  children  come  near  the 
picture  they  will  walk  tiptoe  with  their 
fingers  on  their  lips.  Strange  to  say, 
I  have  decided  to  do  it  in  water-color, 
and  not  in  oil.  Although  one  unques 
tionably  does  not  get  such  solidity  in 
water-color,  it  is  better  suited  to  my  pur 
pose.  Look  at  those  square  porcelain 
dishes  with  lips,  and  those  great  sheets 
of  paper  near  them — all  parts  of  the 
experiments  I  have  tried.  I  can  flow 
washes  so  transparent  that  they  are  like 
air  itself;  and  as  for  variety  of  texture, 
differences  of  gradation,  look  at  that!" 
So  saying,  he  handed  me  a  sheet  of 
paper  that  glowed  like  sunlight,  while 
the  gray  house  in  the  middle  distance 
looked  as  though  it  were  seen  through 
20 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

golden  mists,  or  as  though  its  gray  were 
powdered  with  gold  dust. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  only  one  of  hun 
dreds  of  experiments  I  made  before  I 
reached  with  certainty  what  I  wished 
to  express  in  yellow  light.  I  see  you 
are  looking  at  the  sketch  of  the  rose- 
tree." 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "I  am  very  much  in 
terested." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "they  are  all  part 
and  lot  of  my  final  picture,  which  is  now 
almost  completed.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  see  how  I  proceed  from  time  to 
time  with  my  experiments." 

He  then  turned  the  light  almost  out. 
How  uncanny  it  all  seemed  to  me  as  I 
stood,  long  past  midnight,  in  the  dim, 
shadowy  loft !  But  I  was  so  thoroughly 
interested  that  I  did  not  indulge  long  in 
reflections.  In  a  few  moments  he 
21 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

lighted  a  small  lamp  behind  the  great 
pane  of  yellow  glass,  which  I  now  saw 
was  smeared  over  with  a  weird  kind  of 
sky,  while  the  model  of  the  house  was  al 
most  in  silhouette  against  it.  In 
another  moment  he  had  lighted  a  little 
lamp  under  the  table,  which  shone 
through  a  small  pool  or  pond,  also  made 
of  yellow  glass,  which  in  turn  threw  a 
soft  light  over  the  front  of  the  house. 
Then  he  illuminated  the  interior  of  his 
house,  and  through  the  little  windows 
gleamed  a  melancholy  light,  subdued 
here  and  there  by  bits  of  paint  carefully 
and  most  artistically  added  to  the  win 
dows.  Now  he  placed  a  small  bronze 
heron  on  the  shore  of  the  miniature 
pond;  then  some  bits  of  weeds  and 
grasses.  On  one  side  he  adjusted  a 
group  of  thistles,  and  finally  the  great 
rose-tree  in  miniature  at  one  end  of  the 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

house.  To  these  he  kept  adding  other 
objects,  among  them  a  small  sun-dial. 
Then  he  led  me  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  by  some  hidden  mechanism 
threw  a  soft,  delicious,  but  uncanny  yel 
low  glow  over  the  whole.  The  great 
loft  was  now  in  midnight  darkness  and 
gloom,  and  only  this  beautiful  but  al 
most  specter-like,  haunted  little  spot 
glowing  with  such  strange  and  fascinat 
ing  light.  How  real  it  appeared!  I 
was  riveted  to  the  spot;  the  singular 
beauty  of  this  miniature  house  and 
its  surroundings  grew  on  me.  We 
both  stood  in  absolute  silence.  What 
strange,  hidden  something  was  there 
about  it  that  affected  me  so  curiously? 
I  felt  cold  chills  begin  to  creep  over  me ; 
the  stillness  became  awful.  I  looked 
at  my  companion;  he  seemed  lost  in 
reverie.  But  it  was  not  merely  seem- 
23 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

ing,  it  was  with  real  horror  that  he  stood 
gazing  at  those  little  glass  windows.  I 
do  not  know  how  long  we  stood  thus; 
but  at  last  he  turned  up  the  light,  and 
I  noticed  how  pale  he  had  become  and 
how  absorbed  was  his  manner. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  will  show  you  the 
picture."  He  went  to  the  further  end 
of  the  room  and  pulled  a  large  curtain 
aside,  exposing  the  painting  to  my  view. 
"You  see,  all  the  appliances  of  my 
model  are  but  mere  hints  to  me.  I  use 
them  as  I  use  nature,  and  as  a  figure- 
artist  uses  a  lay  figure,  taking  only  so 
much  as  I  care  for." 

If  I  had  been  impressed  before  with 
all  I  had  seen,  how  much  more  was  I 
impressed  with  the  picture!  How 
beautiful !  Was  the  sky  painted,  or  was 
it  real?  Now  I  could  well  understand 
all  that  he  had  worked  so  hard  to  ac- 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

complish.  Again  I  began  to  feel  a 
mysterious  awe,  cold  shivers  creeping 
over  me,  and  again  the  painter's  manner 
changed.  He  looked  pale  and  hag 
gard,  and  an  expression  of  pain  and 
anguish  seemed  to  show  itself  in  his 
whole  being.  Another  awkward  pause, 
while  the  beautiful  yellow  sky  glowed 
like  light  through  amber.  A  queer,  far 
away,  hold-your-breath  sort  of  feeling 
came  over  me.  I  looked  at  the  front  of 
the  house;  the  paths  were  choked  with 
great  weeds ;  the  sun-dial  was  moss-cov 
ered,  and  on  it  was  a  lizard  so  quiet  that 
it  seemed  petrified.  On  the  shore  of 
the  pond  the  heron  stood  motionless. 
The  little  birds  were  sitting  hushed  in 
the  branches  of  the  rose-tree.  Great 
thistles,  almost  black,  were  in  the  left 
foreground,  and  the  gigantic  rose-tree 
was  blooming  with  beauty.  But  the 
25 


THE    YELLOW    GLOBE 

something  which  made  me  shudder  was 
the  queer,  fascinating  light  shining 
through  the  windows,  which  affected  me 
like  a  wail  from  the  dead.  I  expected 
the  next  moment  to  hear  a  piercing  cry 
from  within  the  house. 

"You  seem  impressed,"  he  said  very 
gently,  and  his  voice  sounded  sweet  and 
low.  He  replaced  the  curtain  over  the 
picture,  and,  as  he  did  so,  said  slowly 
and  sadly,  "Only  a  man  with  a  haunted 
heart  can  paint  a  haunted  house." 


INTERLUDE 


KENSAL  GREEN 

(October  23,  1890) 

With  what  sorrow,  with  what  sadness, 
Laid  we  one  whose  heart  was  gladness 
Underneath  the  gentle  sod. 
Silver  mist  and  birches  true 
Wept  for  him  their  tears  of  dew, 
Wept  for  him  their  tears  of  dew. 

Slowly,  sadly  we  departed; 
One  was  dead,  one  broken-hearted, 
In  this  graveyard  old. 
Silver  mist  and  birches  true 
Wept  for  both  their  tears  of  dew, 
Wept  for  both  their  tears  of  dew. 

A.  W.  DRAKE. 


wary  in  the  Residence  of 
A.  W.  Drake 


THE  CURIOUS  VEHICLE 


w 


THE  CURIOUS  VEHICLE 

TT  was  midnight  in  early  December. 
•*•  A  dense  silver  mist  hid  the  sleeping 
city,  the  street-lamps  gave  a  faint  yel 
low  glimmer  through  the  -almost  im 
penetrable  gloom,  the  air  was  like  the 
cold  breath  from  the  dying,  the  fog 
hanging  in  great  drops  from  my  cloth 
ing.  Stray  policemen  had  taken  refuge 
in  sheltering  doorways,  and  my  own 
footsteps  echoed  with  unfamiliar  and 
uncanny  sound  down  the  long  street — 
the  only  sound  that  broke  the  midnight 
stillness,  save  the  hoarse  whistles  of 
31 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

wandering  and  belated  ferry-boats  on 
the  distant  river. 

As  I  emerged  from  a  narrow  street 
into  the  main  thoroughfare,  my  shiver 
ing  attention  was  attracted  to  a  curious 
covered  vehicle  standing  in  the  bright 
glare  of  an  electric  light.  It  was 
neither  carriage  nor  wagon,  but  an  odd, 
strongly  made  affair,"  painted  olive 
green,  with  square  windows  in  the  sides, 
reaching  from  just  above  the  middle  to 
the  roof,  and  a  smaller  window  in  the 
back  near  the  top.  On  each  side  of  the 
middle  window  were  two  panels  of  glass. 
From  the  middle  window  only  a  dim 
light  shone,  like  a  subdued  light  from  a 
nurse's  lamp.  On  the  seat  in  front,  un 
derneath  a  projecting  hood,  sat  a  little 
old  black  man  wrapped  in  a  buffalo-robe 
and  a  great  fur  coat  partly  covered  with 
a  rubber  cape  or  mackintosh,  with  a  fur 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

cap  pulled  down  over  his  ears.  The 
horse  was  heavily  blanketed,  and  also 
well  protected  with  rubber  covers. 
Both  man  and  beast  waited  with  un 
questioning  patience.  Both  seemed 
lost  in  reverie  or  sleep. 

With  chattering  teeth  I  stood,  won 
dering  what  could  be  going  on  in  that 
queer  box-like  wagon  at  that  time  of 
night.  The  silence  was  oppressive. 
There  stood  the  dimly  lighted  wagon; 
there  stood  the  horse;  there  sat  the 
negro — and  I,  the  only  observer  of  this 
queer  vehicle. 

I  stepped  cautiously  to  the  side  of  the 
wagon,  and  listened.  Not  a  sound 
from  within.  Shivering  and  be 
numbed,  I,  too,  like  the  policemen,  took 
refuge  in  a  doorway,  and  waited  and 
watched  for  some  sound  or  sign  from 
that  mysterious  interior.  I  was  too 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

fond  of  adventure  to  give  it  up.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  hours  passed  and  I 
stood  unrewarded.  Just  as  I  was  re 
luctantly  leaving,  much  chagrined  to 
find  that  I  had  waited  in  vain,  I  saw, 
thrown  against  the  window  for  a  few 
moments  only,  a  curious  enlarged 
shadow  of  a  man's  head.  It  seemed  to 
wear  a  kind  of  tam-o'-shanter,  below 
which  was  a  shade  or  vizor  sticking  out 
beyond  the  man's  face  like  the  gigantic 
beak  of  a  bird.  A  mass  of  wavy  hair 
and  beard  showed  underneath  the  cap. 
Suddenly  the  shadow  disappeared, 
much  to  my  disappointment,  and  al 
though  I  watched  in  the  fog  and  damp 
ness  for  half  an  hour  longer,  it  did  not 
again  appear. 

I  wandered  home,  puzzled  and  specu 
lating,  but  determined  that  I  would  wait 
until  morning  if  I  were  ever  fortunate 
34 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

enough  to  come  across  the  vehicle  again. 
Weeks  passed  before  the  opportunity 
occurred,  and  even  then,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  very  singular  incident,  I  doubt  if 
I  should  ever  have  fathomed  the  mys 
tery  of  the  curious  vehicle. 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  the  night  bit 
terly  cold.  I  had  clothed  myself  in  my 
thickest  ulster.  My  feet  were  incased 
in  arctics,  my  hands  in  warm  fur  gloves, 
and  with  rough  Scotch  cap  I  felt  sure 
I  could  brave  the  coldest  night.  Thus 
equipped,  I  started  out,  and  when  I  re 
turned  at  midnight  in  the  beginning  of 
a  whirling,  almost  blinding  snowstorm, 
the  Christmas  chimes  were  ringing,  and 
the  whole  air  seemed  filled  with  Christ 
mas  cheer. 

Turning  a  corner,  I  discovered  the 
vehicle  in  the  same  place  and  position. 
This  time,  as  I  had  before  resolved,  I 
35 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

would  wait  until  morning  if  necessary. 
So  I  began  pacing  up  and  down  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  the  vehicle,  taking 
strolls  of  five  or  ten  minutes  apart,  and 
then  returning.  I  walked  until  I  was 
almost  exhausted.  In  spite  of  my 
heavy  ulster  I  began  to  feel  chilly,  so  I 
again  took  refuge  in  the  doorway  of  a 
building  opposite. 

Should  I  give  it  up,  I  asked  myself, 
after  waiting  so  long?  I  stood  debat 
ing  the  question.  No,  I  would  wait  a 
little  longer;  so,  puffing  my  pipe,  I  shiv 
ered,  and  watched  for  developments. 
At  last  I  was  about  determined  that  I 
must  go  or  perish,  when  suddenly  I  saw 
through  the  blinding  snow  the  shadow 
of  a  pair  of  hands  appear  at  the  dimly 
lighted  window,  adjusting  a  frame  or 
inner  sash.  You  can  imagine  my  inter 
est  in  the  proceedings. 
36 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

Just  at  this  moment  a  street  sparrow, 
numb  with  the  cold,  and  crowded  from 
a  window-blind  by  its  companions, 
dropped,  half  falling,  half  flying,  to  the 
sidewalk  directly  in  front  of  the  window 
of  the  vehicle.  It  sat  blinking  in  the 
bright  rays  of  the  electric  light,  quite 
bewildered,  turning  its  little  head  first 
one  way,  then  the  other.  In  the  mean 
time  the  shadows  of  the  two  hands  were 
still  visible.  The  sparrow,  probably  atr 
tracted  by  the  light  and  the  movement 
of  the  hands,  suddenly  flew  up,  not 
striking  the  glass,  but  hovering  with  a 
quick  motion  of  the  wings  directly  in 
front  of  the  window,  its  magnified 
shadow  thrown  on  it  by  the  rays  of  the 
electric  light.  Then  the  bird  dropped 
to  the  ground.  The  occupant  was  evi 
dently  much  startled  by  the  large 
shadow  coming  so  suddenly  and  at 
37 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

such  a  time  of  night.  The  shadow 
of  his  hands  quickly  disappeared,  and 
so  did  the  frame.  In  another  moment 
the  door  of  the  vehicle  opened,  giving 
me  a  glimpse  of  a  cozy  and  remarkable 
interior.  It  seemed,  in  contrast  with 
the  cold  and  storm  without,  filled  with 
warmth  and  sunshine.  It  was  like  a 
pictorial  little  room  rather  than  the  in 
side  of  a  wagon  or  carriage.  The  occu 
pant  looked  out  in  a  surprised,  excited, 
and  questioning  way,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"What  could  that  have  been?"  His 
whole  manner  implied  that  he  had  been 
disturbed. 

This  was  my  opportunity,  and,  seiz 
ing  it  instantly,  I  walked  boldly  to  the 
door  of  the  vehicle,  and  said,  "It  was 
a  little  sparrow  benumbed  with  the  cold, 
that  fluttered  down  to  the  sidewalk, 
where  it  lay  for  a  moment,  until,  prob- 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

ably  attracted  by  the  light,  it  hovered 
for  a  few  seconds  before  your  window, 
then  fell  to  the  ground  again." 

I  felt  the  man  eying  me  intently, 
studying  me  with  a  most  searching 
glance.  Was  he  in  doubt  as  to  my  sin 
cerity?  Was  it  a  hidden  bond  of  sym 
pathy  between  us  that  made  him  sud 
denly  relent  and  invite  me  to  enter 
his  vehicle?  What  else  could  have 
prompted  him?  For  my  own  part,  I 
instinctively  felt  for  the  man,  without 
knowing  why,  a  deep  pity. 

"Please  step  inside,"  he  said;  "it  is 
cold." 

And  so,  at  last,  I  was  really  admitted, 
invited  into  the  little  interior — that 
little  interior  which  had  piqued  my  cu 
riosity  for  so  long  a  time.  Yes,  I  was 
admitted  at  last,  and  now  had  a  chance 
to  look  about,  and  to  study  the  general 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

appearance  of  the  occupant  as  he  moved 
over  for  me  to  sit  beside  him  on  the 
roomy,  luxurious  seat.  What  a  cu 
rious  personality!  He  was  a  tall,  raw- 
boned  man  of  strong  character.  His 
soft  gray  beard  and  hair  made  a  marked 
contrast  to  the  dark  surroundings. 
Now  I  understood  the  shadow  which  I 
had  seen  thrown  on  the  window  for  a 
few  seconds.  He  wore  a  tam-o'-shanter 
cap,  and  beneath  it,  to  protect  his  eyes 
from  the  lamp-light,  a  large  vizor,  or 
shade,  which  threw  his  entire  face  into 
deep  shadow,  giving  him  a  look  of  a 
painting  by  an  old  master.  He  had  on 
a  loose  coat  of  some  rough  material. 

Surely  the  interior  of  no  conveyance 
could  be  more  interesting  than  this.  In 
the  front  just  back  of  the  driver,  were 
two  square  windows  with  sliding 
wooden  shutters,  and  between  the  two 
40 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

was  a  little  square  mirror.  Above 
these  was  a  rod,  from  which  hung  a 
dark-green  cloth  curtain  which  could  be 
drawn  at  will.  Underneath  was  a 
chest,  or  cabinet,  of  shallow  drawers 
filling  the  entire  width  of  the  carriage, 
with  small  brass  rings  by  which  to  pull 
them  out.  On  top  of  this  cabinet  stood 
several  clear  glass  jars  half  filled  with 
pure  water.  There  were  two  or  three 
oil-lamps  with  large  shades  hung  in 
brackets  with  sockets  like  steamer- 
lamps,  only  one  of  which  was  lighted. 
Underneath  the  seat  was  a  locker.  On 
the  floor  of  the  conveyance,  along  its 
four  sides,  were  oblong  bars  of  iron,  and 
in  the  center  was  a  warm  fur  rug.  One 
side  only  of  the  carriage  opened.  On 
the  side  opposite  the  door  was  a  rack 
reaching  from  the  window  to  the  floor, 
in  which  stood  six  or  eight  light  but 
41 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

strongly  made  frames,  over  which  was 
stretched  the  thinnest  parchment-like 
paper.  The  top  of  the  vehicle  was 
tufted  and  padded.  The  prevailing 
color  was  dark  green.  In  shape  it  was 
somewhat  longer  and  broader  than  the 
usual  carriage.  There  was  a  small  re 
volving  circular  ventilator  in  front,  over 
the  mirror,  which  could  be  opened  or 
closed  at  will,  and  which  could  also  be 
used  by  the  occupant  for  conversing 
with  the  driver. 

The  man  arose,  and,  opening  the  ven 
tilator,  told  the  coachman  to  drive  on. 
Meanwhile  I  enjoyed  the  wonderful  ef 
fect  of  the  little  interior — its  rich  gloom, 
the  strong  light  from  the  shaded  lamp 
which  was  thrown  over  the  floor,  the 
bright  electric  light  gleaming  through 
the  falling  snow  into  the  window  on  my 
left. 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

The  night,  being  so  disagreeable, 
made  the  interior  seem  very  bright  and 
comfortable  by  contrast,  as  the  man 
closed  the  sliding  wooden  shutters, 
separating  us  entirely  from  the  snow 
storm  without.  There  was  an  artificial 
warmth  which  I  could  not  understand, 
and  with  it  all  a  sense  of  security  and 
coziness.  The  stranger's  manner  was 
both  gentle  and  reassuring.  We  rode 
in  silence  over  the  rough  pavement  un 
til  we  reached  the  smooth  asphalt. 
Then  he  began: 

"I  do  not  consider  myself  supersti 
tious,  but  somehow  I  don't  like  it — that 
little  bird  hovering  in  front  of  my 
window.  It  seems  like  a  bad  omen, 
and  it  was  a  shadow  which  startled 
me.  My  life  seems  haunted  with  shad 
ows,  and  they  always  bring  misfortune 
to  me." 

43 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  time,  when 
he  went  on: 

"How  curious  life  is!  Here  am  I 
riding  with  you,  a  total  stranger,  long 
past  midnight.  You  are  the  first  I 
have  ever  admitted  into  this  wagon, 
with  the  exception  of  my  faithful  Cato, 
who  is  driving.  If  one  could  only  see 
from  the  beginning  how  strangely  one's 
life  is  to  be  ordered." 

The  stranger's  voice  was  rich  and 
deep.  I  hoped  he  would  continue  so 
that  I  might  get  some  idea  of  him  and 
his  peculiar  mode  of  life,  and  what  was 
going  on  night  after  night  in  this  inte 
rior.  I  waited  for  him  to  proceed. 

"Have  you  known  any  trouble  or 
sorrow  in  your  life?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "I  have  lost  nearly 
all  who  were  dear  to  me  in  this  round 
world." 

44 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  will  tell  you  my 
story  with  the  hope  that  it  will  be  both 
understood  and  appreciated.  I  loved 
from  childhood  a  charming  girl,  sweet 
and  pure.  I  need  not  go  into  the  detail 
of  all  that  boyish  love,  but  in  my  early 
manhood  and  her  early  womanhood  we 
were  married — and  what  a  sweet  bride 
she  was! 

"We  lived  in  an  old  white  farmhouse 
in  a  village  near  the  great  city — a  beau 
tiful  place,  a  long,  low,  two-story-and- 
attic  farmhouse,  probably  fifty  or  sixty 
years  old.  How  well  I  can  see  it — its 
sloping  roof,  the  extension,  the  quaint 
doorway  with  side-lights  and  with  a 
window  over  the  top,  the  front  porch 
with  gracefully  shaped  newels,  the  long 
piazza  running  the  entire  length  of  the 
extension,  great  chimneys  at  each  end, 
and  enormous  pine-trees  in  front  of  the 
45 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

house !  The  house  stood  on  a  little  ele 
vation,  with  terraced  bank,  and  with  a 
pretty  fence  inclosing  it.  Beyond  was 
an  old  well  with  lattice-work  sides  and 
door,  and  a  pathway  trodden  by  the  feet 
of  former  occupants,  long  since  dead. 
In  front  of  the  house  were  circular  beds 
of  old-time  flowers — sweet-williams, 
lady's-slippers,  larkspur,  and  foxglove. 
At  the  rear,  great  banks  of  tiger-lilies 
threw  their  delicate  blue  shadows 
against  the  white  surface  of  our  little 
home.  In  one  corner  of  our  garden  we 
had  left  the  weeds  to  grow  luxuriantly, 
like  miniature  forest  trees,  and  found 
much  pleasure  in  studying  their  beau 
tiful  forms.  How  fine  they  looked  in 
silhouette  against  the  sunset  sky!  On 
one  side  of  the  old-fashioned  doorway 
were  shrubs  and  a  rose-of- Sharon  tree, 
46 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

and  on  the  other,  honeysuckle  and 
syringa-bushes.  There  were  also  many 
kinds  of  fruit — and  shade-trees. 

"How  happily  we  walked  up  and 
down  the  shady  lanes  of  that  little  vil 
lage!  For  us  the  birds  sang  sweetly. 
We  took  delight  in  our  flowers,  and 
everything  about  us.  In  the  evening 
we  would  enjoy  the  sunsets,  returning 
home  arm  in  arm  in  the  afterglow,  to  sit 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening  on  the  piazza 
and  to  listen  to  the  wind  as  it  sighed 
through  the  pines.  What  music  they 
made  for  us!  We  compared  it  with 
what  poets  of  all  ages  had  sung  of  them, 
and  went  to  sleep,  lulled  to  rest  by  the 
wind  through  their  soft  boughs." 

He  paused  again,  evidently  thinking 
of  the  happy  time. 

"How  can  I  tell  you,"  he  resumed, 
47 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

"of  the  life  that  went  on  in  that  simple 
old  farmhouse?  Our  pleasant  woodfire 
on  the  hearth;  a  few  photographs  from 
the  old  masters  on  the  walls;  our  favor 
ite  books  of  poetry  and  fiction,  which 
we  read  together  during  the  long  win 
ter  evenings,  while  the  pine-trees  sighed 
outside,  and  all  was  so  comfortable  and 
cozy  within;  or  the  lovely  walks  in 
spring  and  summer,  through  the  by 
ways  of  the  pretty  little  village,  with  its 
hedgerows,  blackberries,  and  wild  flow 
ers.  How  we  watched  for  the  first  vio 
lets,  and  what  joy  the  early  blossoms 
gave  us!  What  pleasure  we  took 
in  those  delightful  years,  and  how 
smoothly  our  lives  ran  on!  Each  day 
I  went  to  the  city,  and  was  always 
cheered  by  the  thought  that  my  sweet 
wife  would  be  at  the  station  to  meet  me. 
How  pure  she  looked  in  the  summer 
48 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

evenings,  clad  in  her  thin  white  dresses, 
with  a  silver  fan  and  brooch,  her  dark 
hair  and  eyes  like  those  of  a  startled 
fawn! 

"Well,  I  need  not  dwell  longer  on 
all  this.  It  was  only  for  a  few  short 
years,  when  one  cruel  cold  day  about 
the  happy  Christmas-time  she  was 
taken  ill,  and  grew  steadily  worse,  and 
all  that  could  be  done  for  her  would 
not  save  her.  She  died.  I  can  see  her 
now — her  dark  hair  laid  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  peaceful,  happy  smile 
on  her  face.  We  buried  her  beneath 
the  snow,  in  the  old  graveyard  overlook 
ing  the  river,  and  I  went  home  broken 
hearted." 

I  heard  the  poor  fellow  sigh,  and  for 

a  time  he  was  silent  as  the  carriage  went 

on  through  the  snow.     "What  can  be 

the  connection  of  this  queer  craft  with 

49 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

what  he  is  telling  me?"  I  thought. 
When  he  resumed,  he  said: 

"For  months  I  tried  to  live  on  in  the 
little  house,  but  life  became  terrible. 
In  the  evenings,  as  I  sat  by  the  pleasant 
log-fire,  I  would  imagine  I  heard  her 
footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  her  voice 
calling  me.  I  did  my  best  to  conquer 
my  grief,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  The 
light  seemed  gone  out  of  my  life.  At 
last  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  I 
moved  all  my  worldly  possessions  to 
another  house  in  the  same  village.  I 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  going  away 
from  the  place  entirely. 

"When  the  springtime  came  again, 
and  the  lovely  flowers  were  in  bloom, 
and  the  birds  were  singing  their  sweet 
songs;  when  the  wind  breathed  softly 
through  the  pine-trees,  and  she  was 
gone,  the  sunsets  were  in  vain,  and  all 
50 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

nature  seemed  mourning.  After  this 
I  busied  myself  with  all  kinds  of  oc 
cupation,  but  without  success.  Life  be 
came  sadder  and  sadder,  until  finally  in 
despair  I  took  a  foreign  trip.  I  trav 
eled  far  and  wide,  but  always  with  the 
same  weary  despondency  and  gloom. 
The  image  of  my  loved  one  was  al 
ways  with  me.  Nothing  in  life  satisfied 
me.  I  wandered  through  country  after 
country,  looking  at  old  masters,  grand 
churches,  listening  to  cathedral  music, 
but  always  before  me  was  the  same  pic 
ture — the  old  white  farmhouse,  the 
great  mournful  pines,  and  with  it  all 
the  memory  of  the  sweet  life  now  de 
parted,  for  which  nothing  could  make 
amends." 

Then  he  was  silent,  and  as  we  drove 
over  the  soft,  snow-covered  asphalt,  he 
became  absorbed  in  thought. 
51 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

"After  a  year  or  so  of  restless  foreign 
travel  I  drifted  back  to  my  own  country 
and  to  the  little  village.  Night  after 
night  I  wandered  around  the  empty 
house  where  we  had  lived,  and  through 
the  little  garden,  and  would  stand  at 
midnight  listening  to  the  sad  sighing  of 
the  wind  through  the  pine-trees,  which 
to  me  sounded  like  a  requiem  for  the 
dead.  Many  a  moonlight  night  have  I 
stood  gazing  into  the  windows,  and 
imagine  her  looking  out  at  me  as  in  the 
happy  days  of  old,  and  I  would  walk 
up  and  down  the  path  thinking,  oh,  how 
sadly!  of  the  times  we  used  to  return 
by  it  from  our  evening  walks. 

"Finally  the  little  village  became 
hateful  to  me.  I  could  endure  it  no 
longer,  and  I  shook  its  dust  from  my 
feet.  With  reluctance  I  moved  away 
into  the  heart  of  the  great  city,  but  with 
52 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

the  same  longing  in  my  heart — the  same 
despair.  I  hunted  up  my  two  faithful 
black  servants  who  had  lived  with  us 
for  several  years.  I  bought  a  house  in 
the  old  part  of  the  city,  and  there  we 
now  live,  and  I  am  well  cared  for  by 
them.  Let  me  read  you  portions  of  a 
letter  from  her — one  of  the  last  she 
wrote,"  and  he  took  from  his  pocket  a 
little  morocco  book  with  monogram  in 
silver  script  letters.  He  rose  and  asked 
the  driver  to  stop,  and  turning  the  light 
up,  said:  "This  will  give  you  some  idea 
of  the  sweet  life,  with  its  love  of  nature, 
that  went  on  in  and  about  that  little 
cottage.  The  letter  was  written  to  me 
when  I  was  in  another  city."  He  read 
as  follows: 

"My  dear,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how 
lovely  the  shadows  looked  as  I  strolled 
around  our  little  house  this  evening,  and 
53 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

was  filled  with  delight  by  their  beautiful 
but  evasive  forms.  To  begin  with,  you 
remember  the  exquisite,  almost  sil 
houette,  shadow  of  the  rose-of- Sharon 
bush  by  the  front  door.  I  gave  it  a 
long  study  to-night.  Its  fine,  decora 
tive  character  reminded  me  of  a  Japa 
nese  drawing,  only  it  is  far  more  delicate 
and  subtle.  If  this  could  be  painted  in 
soft  gray  on  the  door-posts  and  around 
the  little  side  windows,  how  it  would 
beautify  our  plain  dwelling,  and  what  a 
permanent  reminder  it  would  be  of  our 
delightful  summer  days ! 

"But  if  I  spend  too  much  time  on  a 
single  shadow,  I  shall  have  no  room  left 
to  'tell  you  of  the  greater  ones  we  have 
enjoyed  together  .  .  .  From  the  path 
near  the  gate,  and  looking  toward  the 
house,  I  saw  to-night,  and  seemed  to 
feel  for  the  first  time,  the  wonderful 
54 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

tenderness  of  the  great  shadow  which 
nearly  covers  the  end  and  side  of  our 
house.  How  mysterious  our  kitchen 
became,  with  its  shed  completely  in 
closed  in  velvety  gloom  suggesting  both 
sorrow  and  tragedy;  while  the  other  end 
of  the  house  was  covered  with  fantastic 
forms,  soft  and  ethereal,  and  with  a 
delicacy  indescribable  .  .  .  But  when 
the  moon  came  up,  and  the  soft  shadows 
of  the  pines  were  cast  on  the  pure  white 
weather-boards  of  our  little  home, — the 
shadows  of  our  own  pines,  the  pines 
we  love  so  well,  and  through  whose 
branches  we  have  heard  music  sweet  and 
low,  soft  and  sad, — then  I  thought  of 
you  as  I  studied  their  masses  tossing  so 
gently,  their  movement  almost  imper 
ceptible,  and  I  longed  for  you  as  I 
studied  their  moving  forms,  their  rich 
ness,  variety,  and  texture — for  you  to 
55 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

tell  me  of  their  artistic  beauty — your 
delicate,  poetic  appreciation  of  their 
loveliness.  .  .  .  And  at  last,  may  the 
sun  and  moon  shine  brightly  and  cast 
beautiful  shadows  among  and  over  the 
tombstones  for  you  and  for  me,  my 
dear,  and  may  a  blessed  hope  make  the 
sunset  of  life  glorious  for  us  both." 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  and 
had  asked  the  driver  to  drive  on,  he  be 
came  absorbed  and  silent,  and  I 
thought,  "How  strange  to  be  riding 
through  the  streets  of  the  city  after  mid 
night  in  a  whirling  snowstorm  with  a 
stranger,  in  a  vehicle  so  remarkable, 
listening  to  such  a  pathetic  love-story, 
such  a  beautiful  description  of  quiet  do 
mestic  life."  It  was  a  charming  idyl. 

"You  can  get  an  idea  from  this,"  he 
said,  "of  the  delightful,  contented  life 
which  went  on  in  the  little  cottage," 
56 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

and  he  sat  holding  the  book  in  his  hands 
as  though  he  were  living  it  all  over 
again,  while  the  bright  silver  script 
monogram  gleamed  and  glistened  on  the 
cover  until  he  turned  down  the  light, 
and  for  a  time  we  drove  over  the  smooth 
asphalt  in  utter  silence. 

"Do  you  wonder,"  he  suddenly  asked, 
"that  the  shadow  of  that  little  bird  has 
caused  me  uneasiness,  and  yet  do  you 
not  see  that  almost  the  last  letter  she 
wrote  me  was  filled  with  omens, 
shadows?  It  is  but  natural  that  I 
should  have  some  feeling  about  it — and 
yet,  why  should  I  care?  I  have  only 
myself  and  my  two  old  servants  who 
could  be  affected  by  it,  bad  or  good. 
For  myself,  my  only  desire  is  to  live 
long  enough  to  complete  my  work ;  then 
I  am  both  ready  and  willing  to  go.  I 
shall  welcome  death  with  delight." 
57 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

I  had  become  so  absorbed  in  his  story 
that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  my  sur 
roundings  ;  but  now  as  he  paused  I  again 
asked  myself  what  strange  connection 
had  this  sad  story,  and  the  letter,  and 
all  that  he  had  been  telling  me,  with  the 
wagon;  for  I  was  sure  that  in  some 
queer  way  the  story  would  help  to  ex 
plain  it  all. 

"While  in  Europe,"  he  went  on,  "I 
studied  the  old  masters  a  great  deal,  par 
ticularly  the  halos  and  nimbuses  sur 
rounding  the  heads  of  the  saints.  I 
cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how  interesting 
they  became  to  me.  I  was  struck  with 
the  exquisite  workmanship  bestowed  on 
many  of  them,  but  fine  as  they  were, 
they  never  came  up  to  my  idea  of  what 
a  halo  should  be.  As  my  loved  one  was 
so  pure  and  gentle,  I  always  thought 
of  her  as  a  saint  (and  indeed  she  is 
58  • 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

such),  and  I  would  become  interested 
and  imagine  what  kind  of  halo  I  would 
surround  her  with  if  I  were  painting 
her — not  one  of  the  halos  of  the  old  mas 
ters  seemed  fine  enough  or  ethereal 
enough  for  her.  I  had  always  been 
fond  of  art,  and  had  been  considered  a 
fair  amateur  artist.  One  evening  after 
I  had  moved  to  the  city,  and  while  rid 
ing  in  a  cab  (oh,  how  gloomy!)  on  a 
snowy  evening  something  like  this  very 
night,  I  looked  through  the  window 
down  at  an  electric  light,  and  there  I 
saw  the  loveliest  halo,  in  miniature. 
Such  tints!  A  heavenly  vision!  I 
thought  of  the  old  masters,  of  the  beau 
tiful  Siena  Madonna,  and  with  sudden 
joy  I  thought:  'Why  should  I  not  paint 
the  image  of  her  I  love  ?  Why  should  I 
not  clothe  her  in  Madonna-like  robes, 
with  a  halo  which  could  come  only 
59 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

out  of  the  nineteenth  century?  Why 
should  she  not  have  a  halo  far  outshin 
ing  and  far  surpassing  in  beauty  halo 
ever  painted  by  mortal  man?'  I  rode 
nearly  the  whole  night  through,  evi 
dently  to  the  despair  of  the  driver,  as 
I  repeatedly  asked  him  to  stop  opposite 
electric  lights  and  street-lamps. 

"From  that  day  I  had  a  new  purpose 
in  life.  I  had  this  wagon  built  just  as 
you  see  it.  For  months  I  thought  of 
it.  Over  and  over  again  I  drew  my 
plans  before  the  vehicle  was  actually 
constructed.  Then  I  began  my  work. 
Old  Cato,  who  is  driving,  sits  night  af 
ter  night,  unmindful  of  the  cold, 
wrapped  in  his  great  fur  coat,  and 
he  waits  and  I  work  through  the  mid 
night  hours  to  conceive  and  make  real 
the  new  Madonna." 

What  a  strange,  subtle  connection 
60 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

the  whole  thing  had,  as  he  suddenly 
tapped  on  the  small  window  and  we 
stopped  directly  in  front  of  an  electric 
light !  As  he  opened  the  sliding  shutter 
I  saw,  through  the  frosted  window  and 
the  feathery  snow,  such  a  vision  of  love 
liness — a  little  halo  that  could  scarcely 
be  described  in  words.  It  was  like  a 
miniature  circular  rainbow,  intensified 
and  glorified  by  the  glittering  rays  of 
the  penetrating  electric  light. 

"What  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
that?  Isn't  it  exquisite?"  he  asked. 
"Did  ever  painted  saint  have  a  halo  like 
that?" 

I  held  my  breath,  for  I  had  never 
seen  anything  so  beautiful. 

"I  have  worked  at  it  for  a  long  time. 

I  have  not  yet  accomplished  it,  but  I 

hope   to.     I   am   coming  nearer  to   it 

every    night    in    which    I    can    work. 

61 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

There  are  not  many  during  the  winter; 
the  conditions  of  atmosphere  and  tem 
perature  must  be  just  right.  On  foggy 
nights,  or  when  the  air  is  filled  with 
light,  flying  snow — these  are  the  nights 
in  which  the  little  halos  glow  around  the 
electric  lights,  street-lamps,  and  lights 
in  show-windows.  Oh,"  he  said,  "they 
fill  me  with  a  happiness  and  delight  I 
cannot  describe,  as  I  try  all  kinds  of  ex 
periments  to  transfix  the  beautiful 
colors  of  their  delicate  rays! 

"Let  me  show  you,"  he  went  on,  and 
he  lifted  one  of  the  frames  which  I  have 
already  described,  covered  with  a  thin 
parchment-like  paper.  This  he  care 
fully  buttoned  to  a  groove  in  the  win 
dow.  On  the  surface  of  the  stretched 
parchment  the  little  halo  glowed  with 
its  prismatic  tints,  and  again  I  held  my 
breath  at  the  beauty  of  it.  I  too  was 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

becoming  a  halo-worshiper.  Then  he 
lifted  from  the  rack  on  the  side,  and 
held  up  to  the  light,  first  one  and  then 
another  of  the  frames  on  the  parchment 
surface  of  which  he  had  actually  traced 
with  lines  of  color,  against  the  gloom  be 
yond,  radiating  lines  crossing  and  re- 
crossing,  glowing  with  rainbow  tints 
seen  through  and  against  the  window. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Franken 
stein's  wonderful  Magic  Recipro 
cals,  sometimes  called  Harmonic  Re 
sponses?"  1  he  asked.  "How  I  longed 

iThe  Magic  Reciprocals  or  Harmonic  Responses, 
were  discovered  by  Gustavus  Frankenstein,  and  are 
properly  drawn  in  color.  The  following  are  extracts 
from  letters  received  from  Mr.  Frankenstein,  to  whom 
the  author  is  indebted  for  the  drawings  at  the  be 
ginning  and  end  of  this  story:  "To-morrow  morning 
I  shall  send  them.  They  are  transcendently  lovely. 
They  are  halos,  if  ever  there  was  a  halo.  So  wonder 
fully  magical  are  they  that  I  think  thou  wilt  modify 
thy  language,  and  perhaps  say  that  Frankenstein  pro 
duces  halos  almost,  if  not  quite,  to  the  very  perfection. 
Why,  they  seem  to  dazzle  and  bewilder  like  the  very 
sun  itself.  They  do  not  actually  emit  light,  but  they 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

for  his  marvelous  power,  so  that  I  might 
experiment  with  them.  But  they  were 
far  beyond  my  skill,  and  also,  perhaps, 
too  scientific  and  geometrical  for  my 
purpose ;  and  so  I  was  forced  to  discard 
them  and  begin  afresh  in  my  own  way. 
I  have  had  reasonable  success,  although 
I  have  not  yet  reached  the  purity  of 
color  nor  the  brilliancy  that  I  wish.  I 

look  like  the  soul  of  light.  More  like  beautiful 
thoughts  are  they,  spirits  of  loveliness,  than  like  any 
thing  tangible."  ...  "I  was  a  long  time  working  out 
the  mathematical  problem  of  the  perfectly  balanced 
and  completely  symmetrical  circular  harmonic  re 
sponses  ;  and  then  the  drawings  were  executed  with  the 
greatest  care  as  to  perfect  precision  and  accuracy." 
.  .  .  "The  little  round  white  spot  in  the  center  imparts 
an  animating  expression  to  the  whole  Response;  and 
now,  as  I  write,  it  occurs  to  me  very  forcibly  that  the 
whole  Response  looks  something  like — and  very  much 
like — the  iris  of  the  eye,  and  the  little  round  spot  in  the 
center  is  the  pupil.  If  the  iris  were  all  iris,  having  no 
pupil  in  the  center,  it  would  appear  expressionless  and 
not  vividly  suggestive  of  the  soul  of  life.  The  spot 
in  the  center  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  tangible  exist 
ence  or  thing  which  is  the  source  of  the  surrounding 
halo."  Again :  "The  true  and  complete  Response — the 
mathematical  assertion — has  the  animating  spot  in  the 
center." 

64 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

do  not  know  that  mortal  man  ever  can. 
I  have  tried  all  sorts  of  experiments — 
lines  of  silver  crossed  with  lines  of  gold; 
prismatic  threads  of  silk;  and  now  I 
have  abandoned  them  all,  and  beginning 
again,  perhaps  for  the  fortieth  time. 
But  if  I  am  only  able  to  do  it,  nothing 
can  give  me  greater  happiness.  I  can 
close  my  eyes  in  peace  at  last."  After 
he  had  shown  me  his  experiments,  he 
removed  the  little  frame  from  the  win 
dow,  closed  the  sliding  shutter  on  the 
side,  and,  turning  the  circular  ventila 
tor,  asked  the  driver  to  drive  on. 

"Now  for  an  extended  view,"  he  said, 
and  he  opened  the  shutter  of  one  of  the 
front  windows,  and  then  of  the  other  on 
each  side  of  the  mirror.  What  a  vista 
of  loveliness!  A  long  perspective  of 
glowing  halos,  vanishing  down  the 
street  through  the  flying  snow,  until 
65 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

they  were  mere  specks  of  light  in  the 
distance.  The  whole  atmosphere  was 
filled  with  circular  rainbows,  and  again 
he  dwelt  on  their  beauty.  They  glowed 
with  ultramarine,  with  delicate  green, 
with  gold  and  silver,  and  like  light  from 
burnished  copper,  and  our  little  vehicle 
seemed  a  moving  palace  of  delight,  as 
we  drove  on  through  the  blinding  storm. 
Turning  into  one  of  the  narrower 
streets,  away  from  the  electric  lights, 
we  saw  the  long  line  of  receding  gas- 
lamps,  each  with  its  softly  subdued 
nimbus,  and  he  said  in  a  low  and  gentle 
voice,  almost  a  whisper,  "The  street  of 
halos." 

When  he  had  closed  the  shutters  again 
he  said,  "Let  me  show  you  my  cabinet 
of  colors  and  working  tools."  He 
pulled  out  a  shallow  drawer,  and  there 
on  small  porcelain  plaques  (the  kind 
66 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

used  by  water-color  painters)  side  by 
side,  in  regular  order,  was  every  shade 
of  red,  from  the  faintest  pink  to  the 
deepest  crimson.  He  opened  the  next 
drawer,  and  instead  of  the  red  was  an 
arrangement  of  blues,  from  delicate  tur 
quoise  to  deepest  ultramarine.  In  the 
third  drawer  was  an  arrangement  of 
yellows,  running  from  Naples  to  deep 
est  cadnium. 

"I  deal  in  primary  colors,"  he  said, 
"for  what  would  you  paint  rainbows  in 
but  red,  blue,  and  yellow?" 

Then  he  opened  the  fourth  drawer, 
and  there,  laid  with  precision,  were 
long-handled  brushes  from  the  finest 
sable  (mere  pin  points)  up  to  thick  ones 
as  large  as  one's  finger.  There  were 
flat  ones  and  round  ones,  short  ones  and 
long  ones.  As  he  opened  the  fifth 
drawer,  "For  odds  and  ends,"  he  said. 
67 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

This  was  a  little  deeper  than  the  others, 
and  in  it  were  sponges  fine  and  coarse, 
erasers,  scrapers,  and  boxes  of  drawing- 
tacks  of  various  sizes.  In  the  last 
drawer  were  soft  white  rags  and  sheets 
of  blotting-paper  of  assorted  sizes. 

After  he  had  shown  me  the  contents 
of  the  cabinet,  he  said,  "I  have  been 
quite  disturbed  by  the  shadow  of  that  lit 
tle  bird.  Will  you  join  me  in  a  glass  of 
old  sherry?"  He  opened  the  locker  un 
derneath  the  seat,  and  brought  out  an 
odd-shaped  bottle,  which  he  unscrewed, 
handing  me  a  small,  thistle-shaped  glass 
and  a  tin  box  containing  crackers. 

"It  is  a  bad  night,"  he  said;  "a  very 
bad  night.  I  feel  it,  even,  with  the 
warmth  of  this  interior.  Those  long 
bars  of  iron  are  filled  with  hot  water, 
which  usually  keeps  me  very  warm." 

Then  he  passed  through  the  ventila- 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

tor,  to  the  driver,  some  crackers  and 
sherry.  After  he  had  closed  it,  and  put 
away  the  bottle,  box,  and  glasses,  we 
both  mused  a  long  time,  the  halo-painter 
completely  lost  in  reverie,  and  I  think 
ing  of  the  undying  love  of  such  a  man — 
a  man  who  could  love  but  one  and  for 
whom  no  other  eyes  or  voice  could  ever 
mean  so  much.  With  him  love  was  an 
all-absorbing  passion.  He  had  given 
his  heart  without  reserve,  and  for  him 
no  other  love  could  ever  bloom  again. 
I  thought  of  him  sitting,  night  after 
night,  in  his  solitary  vehicle  working  at 
the  halo — the  new  halo  which  should 
surround  the  head  of  her  he  loved.  I 
thought  of  him  in  the  lonely  early  morn 
ing  hours,  working  at  a  nimbus  which 
was  far  to  outshine  in  beauty  and 
delicacy  any  painted  or  dreamed  of  by 
God-fearing  saint-painters  of  old. 
69 


THE    CURIOUS    VEHICLE 

He  opened  the  shutters,  and  the  light 
from  the  lamp  began  to  grow  dimmer 
as  the  early  morning  light  shone  faintly 
through  the  windows.  I  noticed  the 
deep  furrows  of  care  and  sorrow  which 
marked  his  strong,  pathetic  face,  puri 
fied  by  suffering  and  lighted  by  divine 
hope — the  face  of  one  who  lived  in 
another  world,  and  for  whom  all  of  life 
was  centered  in  his  ideal — one  who  was 
in  the  world,  but  not  of  it. 

As  he  bade  me  good-by,  his  face 
beamed  in  the  early  Christmas  morning 
light  with  indescribable  tenderness ;  and 
as  the  little  wagon  with  its  faithful  old 
black  driver  disappeared  through  the 
snow,  I  thought  again  and  again  of  the 
beautiful,  touching  love  of  the  man  who 
would  sit  night  after  night  trying  to  re 
alize  his  dream  of  beauty,  to  clothe  in  the 
garb  of  a  saint  the  form  of  her  he  loved. 
70 


A  Doorway  Bottle-Cabinet 


INTERLUDE 


PADEREWSKI 

(December  27,  1891) 

First  it  was  the  hum  of  bees, 
Then  the  wind  through  forest  trees, 
Note  of  bird,  and  waters  flowing, 
Lovely  fragrance,  sweet  things  grow 
ing, 

When  Paderewski  played. 

Sorrow  fled,  and  Hope  returned, 
Ambition  on  the  altar  burned, 
It  was  not  day,  it  was  not  night, 
But  the  world  was  filled  with  golden 
light 

When  Paderewski  played. 
A.  W.  DRAKE. 


THE  LOOSENED  CORD 


THE  LOOSENED  CORD 

r  I^HE  host  was  noted  for  his  charm- 
•*•  ing  dinners.  He  had  never  been 
known  to  give  them  twice  alike,  and 
whoever  was  fortunate  enough  to  be 
invited  to  one  of  his  entertainments  al 
ways  had  a  delightful  memory  of  it — 
something  unusual,  some  wonder  of  the 
table,  some  setting  original  and  pecul 
iar.  His  combinations  were  carefully 
considered,  and  many  were  the  stories 
told  of  them. 

Once  it  was  a  delightful  dinner  in 
midsummer,  where  small  vessels  floated 
75 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

about  among  miniature  icebergs  over  a 
sea  of  cobalt  blue,  a  cool,  refreshing, 
and  unique  centerpiece. 

At  another  time  the  centerpiece  was 
a  large,  circular,  shallow  vessel  of 
brightly  burnished  copper,  filled  with 
water,  and  surrounded  with  small  pots 
of  growing  verbenas — pink,  crimson, 
purple,  white,  and  variegated,  fringing 
the  miniature  lake  like  a  beautiful 
meadow  of  flowers.  On  the  surface  of 
the  water  floated  delicate  blown-glass 
balls  of  various  sizes,  like  bubbles,  kept 
in  motion  by  gold  and  silver  fish  swim 
ming  about  among  them;  they  caught 
reflections  of  color  from  the  flowers,  and 
high  lights  gleamed  here  and  there, 
thrown  from  the  softly  glowing  candles 
above.  Now  and  then  a  gold  or  a  sil 
ver  fish  would  be  magnified  through  a 
glass  ball  until  it  became  a  golden  or  sil- 
76 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

ver  bubble  drifting  slowly  over  the 
water.  Old  Russian  hammered  copper 
receptacles  at  the  four  corners  of  the 
table  held  towering  rose-bushes  in  full 
bloom,  so  that  the  lovely  guest  of  the 
evening  sat  in  a  bower  of  green  and 
roses. 


To-night  every  one  was  wondering 
what  new  device,  what  new  treatment  of 
the  table,  the  host  had  evolved.  The 
dinner  was  held  in  a  lofty  studio  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  in  early  spring.  Rare 
low-toned  tapestries  adorned  the  side 
walls.  Here  and  there  gleamed  brass 
and  copper  plaques  of  the  fifteenth  cen 
tury.  Venetian  glass  glittered  in 
antique  carved  cabinets.  There  were 
old  musical  instruments,  crucifixes, 
paintings,  arms,  and  bric-a-brac  from 
77 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

every  quarter  of  the  globe.  The  night 
being  warm,  the  great  skylight  had  been 
thrown  open,  and  above  the  beautiful 
studio  there  could  be  seen  a  velvety 
patch  of  sky,  through  which  the  stars 
twinkled  softly,  making  a  marked  con 
trast  to  the  rich  surroundings  of  the 
interior. 

The  host  had  provided  a  table  marked 
by  the  simplicity  of  its  decoration — a 
few  flowers  here  and  there,  bits  of  old 
repouse  silver  of  the  times  of  the 
Georges,  dainty  glass  and  china,  and 
that  was  all.  When  the  company  en 
tered  the  room  there  was  an  exclama 
tion,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 
chair  assigned  to  the  honored  guest,  for, 
attached  to  it  by  a  most  delicate  silken 
cord,  floated  a  miniature  balloon, 
swayed  by  every  current  of  air  which 
passed  through  the  great  studio.  It 
78 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

was  a  balloon  perfect  in  all  its  details, 
a  complete  miniature  of  a  real  and  pos 
sible  one,  not  the  red  ball  of  the  toy 
shops.  All  its  ropes  and  stays  were  of 
threads  of  silk,  golden  and  delicate 
apple-green,  crossing  and  recrossing  one 
another.  Beneath  it,  instead  of  the 
usual  car  or  basket,  hung  a  circular  cage 
of  gossamer-like  workmanship.  In  it 
was  a  swinging  perch  on  which  sat  a 
little  bird  that  sang  with  the  greatest  de 
light  as  the  balloon  rocked  to  and 
fro,  held  in  place  by  its  single  cord  of 
silk. 

It  was  a  charming  company.  There 
was  a  wit,  a  naval  officer,  a  contralto 
singer,  a  story-teller — but  why  enumer 
ate  all  of  that  delightful  group?  The 
studio  and  table  looked  lovely  in  the 
soft  glow  of  candle-light,  for  neither 
gas  nor  electric  light  had  any  part  in 
79 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

the  host's  entertainment.  Later  on, 
when  the  merriment  was  at  its  height, 
the  voices  were  almost  drowned  by  the 
notes  of  the  little  songster  in  his  gilded 
cage.  Just  as  the  contralto  had  arisen 
to  sing,  the  silken  cord  which  held  the 
balloon  became  loosened  in  some  acci 
dental  manner.  Hands  were  eagerly 
but  vainly  extended  to  catch  it,  and  all 
eyes  were  turned  upward  as  the  balloon 
rose  rapidly  higher  and  higher  out  of 
reach.  The  joyous  notes  of  the  bird 
grew  fainter  and  fainter  until  balloon 
and  songster  disappeared  through  the 
open  skylight,  into  the  patch  of  velvety 
sky  studded  with  stars.  The  merri 
ment  was  hushed,  and  it  was  minutes 
before  any  one  spoke,  and  then  the 
bronzed  naval  officer  suggested  that 
they  should  go  to  the  roof  and  see  which 
way  the  wind  was  blowing.  They  as- 
80 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

cended  the  winding  stairs,  and  the  offi 
cer  held  up  his  handkerchief  to  catch 
the  breeze. 

"The  wind  is  due  north,"  he  said, 
"and  by  morning  the  little  bird  will  be 
well  on  its  way  toward  the  Gulf." 

They  returned  to  the  studio,  but  do 
what  they  would,  the  conversation 
flagged,  and  it  was  impossible  to  revive 
the  merriment.  Even  the  contralto's 
beautiful  song  failed  to  interest  them, 
and  nothing  seemed  to  restore  the  spirits 
of  the  guests.  Each  one  was  thinking 
of  the  little  bird;  each  one  seemed  to 
hear  its  ecstatic  notes  as  it  sailed  away 
out  of  sight  under  the  stars,  and  a  feel 
ing  of  sympathy  and  pity  for  the  little 
prisoner  came  over  them  all. 

Coffee  and  cigars  were  brought,  and 
the    ladies    disappeared.     The    party 
broke  up  at  midnight.     Carriages  were 
81 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

called  and  the  host  bade  his  guests  good 
night.  He  whose  dinners  had  always 
been  a  success  was  forced  to  ac 
knowledge  that  to-night's  was  a  dismal 
failure,  and  he  sat  gloomy  and  silent, 
thinking  of  the  little  balloon  sailing 
away  through  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
carrying  the  imprisoned  songster  he 
knew  not  whither. 


II 

The  sun  is  just  setting  behind  a  beau 
tiful  old  French  town  on  the  west 
bank  of  the  southern  Mississippi. 
The  streets  are  filled — flooded  with  sun 
light.  The  gardens  are  blooming  with 
oleander-trees.  There  is  the  humming 
of  bees,  singing  of  birds,  and  a 
fragrance  indescribable.  The  Missis 
sippi  stretches  away  like  a  great  sil- 
82 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

ver  serpent  between  golden  meadows 
and  headlands  on  either  side,  until  it 
becomes  a  mere  glint  of  light  in  the 
distance.  Children  are  playing  in  the 
streets,  and  dark-eyed  French  girls  in 
their  pure  white  dresses  are  sitting  in 
the  balconies  among  the  flowers.  Many 
of  the  villagers  are  wending  their  way 
to  the  post-office  for  the  evening  mail, 
and  here  and  there  in  a  doorway  is  a 
gossiping  group.  Suddenly  there  is  an 
exclamation.  The  children  stop  their 
play,  and  point  to  the  sky.  At  the  ex 
treme  end  of  the  village  street  is  a  mere 
speck  floating  and  swaying  in  the  air  as 
it  comes  nearer  and  nearer.  Heads 
are  peering  out  of  windows.  The  vil 
lagers  have  forgotten  their  mail  and 
their  gossip.  All  is  hushed.  There  in 
the  yellow  light  something  floats  in  the 
sky,  coming  steadily  nearer.  Music 
83 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

is  heard — bird-music.  Among  those 
watching  are  a  few  brothers  of  the 
church,  who  cross  themselves  and  look 
wonderingly  at  the  rapidly  growing 
speck.  On  it  comes,  larger  and  larger 
it  grows,  and  now  a  miniature  balloon 
is  seen  sailing  slowly,  swaying  grace 
fully  to  and  fro,  but  keeping  almost  a 
steady  course  down  the  quiet  street. 
The  villagers  are  filled  with  awe,  as 
floating  overhead  almost  within  reach 
the  little  balloon  passes  on  and  on  in  the 
golden  light  of  the  dying  day,  with  its 
feathered  passenger  sending  forth  its 
liquid,  almost  heavenly  song. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  village  street 
is  a  group  of  people  standing  about  a 
noble-looking  house  with  a  double  piazza 
where  flowers  are  blooming — cactus, 
crimson  roses,  and  yellow  jasmine. 
The  group  includes  old  and  young,  men, 
84 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

women,  and  little  children,  a  cripple  on 
crutches,  and  colored  servants;  for  they 
are  standing  about  the  house  of  Rose 
Danian — she  who  has  done  sweet  deeds 
of  charity  throughout  the  short  life 
which  is  now  slowly  ebbing  away.  All 
wait  in  reverent  mood;  even  the  chil 
dren  forget  their  play:  for  all  love  her, 
and  remember  some  kindness, — some 
unexpected,  generous  deed, — and  the 
whole  town  is  in  mourning.  In  the 
room  above,  which  is  flooded  with  soft 
warm  sunlight,  stand  parents  and 
friends,  and  the  village  priest  adminis 
tering  the  last  sacrament  to  the  dying 
girl.  Her  luxuriant  auburn  hair  sur 
rounds  her  head  like  the  aureole  of  a 
saint.  Her  eyes  gaze  into  the  distance 
with  a  look  of  rapture. 

And  now  down  the  village  street, 
through  a  cloud  of  golden  dust  raised 
85 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

by  a  passing  vehicle,  there  floats  gently, 
gently,  before  the  house  of  Rose  Dan- 
ian,  the  little  balloon  with  its  half -fam 
ished  singing  prisoner  that  has  made  so 
long  and  perilous  a  journey.  Caught 
by  a  sudden  current  of  air,  it  drifts 
lower  and  lower  until  it  pauses  under 
neath  the  upper  balcony,  trembling  with 
a  slight  quivering  motion  before  the 
open  window,  in  the  tender,  soft  light  of 
departing  day.  The  last  look  of  the 
dying  girl  rests  on  the  little  songster  as 
it  pours  forth  again  and  again  its  ec 
static  song  with  delight  indescribable, 
then  drops  from  its  perch.  What  cu 
rious  coincidence  causes  the  balloon  sud 
denly  to  collapse,  and  to  sink  slowly  and 
softly  until  it  lies  on  the  balcony  among 
the  flowers,  it,  too,  like  the  little  bird, 
with  life  extinct? 

The    priest    crosses    himself.     The 
86 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

weeping  friends  drop  on  their  knees  as 
the  last  ray  of  sunlight  disappears  gild 
ing  here  and  there  a  roof,  here  and  there 
a  bit  of  projecting  ornament.  The 
golden  light  changes  to  a  delicate  apple- 
green;  the  great  river  gleams  and  glows, 
assuming  prismatic  hues  reflected  from 
the  sky  above.  All  is  hushed  and 
solemn  in  the  twilight,  as  the  priest  says 
reverently,  "A  miracle,  my  children!  a 
miracle!" 

In  the  chapel  of  the  church  of  Saint 
Mary,  just  in  front  of  the  altar,  to  the 
left  of  the  picture  of  Mary  and  the 
Child,  hangs  suspended  from  a  curiously 
wrought  brass  scroll,  or  arm,  the  little 
balloon.  It  was  the  clock-maker  of  the 
village,  who,  with  loving  care,  arranged 
the  ribs  of  wire  which  hold  it  out  until 
it  assumes  its  natural,  inflated  form. 
87 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

Underneath  is  the  delicate  cage,  and, 
done  with  the  tenderest  love  of  the  vil 
lage  taxidermist,  there  sits  the  little 
feathered  songster  on  its  swinging 
perch,  its  head  turned  upward,  its 
throat  expanded,  its  mouth  open,  ap 
parently  singing  its  last  rapturous  song. 
It  is  placed  there  as  a  token  of  love  to 
mark  the  miracle  of  the  dying  day  of 
sweet  Rose  Danian. 

Children  peer  between  the  wrought- 
iron  bars  of  the  great  gates,  with  their 
noble  family  escutcheon,  which  protect 
the  chapel.  Mothers  pause,  looking 
lovingly  at  the  balloon  with  its  lifeless 
songster.  The  cripple,  leaning  on  his 
crutch,  gazes  long  and  wonderingly, 
with  almost  superstitious  awe,  at  this 
singular  token  of  loving  remembrance. 
Many  are  the  stories  told  of  beautiful 
Rose  Danian  on  this,  the  anniversary 
88 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

day  of  the  miracle,  and  in  the  church 
mass  has  been  celebrated  for  the  repose 
of  her  soul.  But  now  vespers  are  being 
held;  great  shafts  of  colored  light  are 
thrown  through  the  stained-glass  win 
dows,  penetrating  the  gloom  of  the 
darkest  recesses,  flooding  the  picture  of 
Mary  and  the  Child,  lighting  and  gild 
ing  the  little  balloon  until  it  looks  like 
a  floating  glory,  or  halo.  There  is  an 
odor  of  burning  incense,  the  grand  chant 
of  the  brothers,  and  the  solemn  swell  of 
the  organ. 

Penitents  young  and  old  are  kneeling 
in  the  church,  but  who,  think  you,  is 
standing  before  the  altar  in  the  chapel, 
examining  with  intense  interest  the  lit 
tle  balloon,  while  the  distant  voices  of 
the  brothers  and  the  last  strains  from  the 
organ  die  away?  On  whom,  think  you, 
does  the  sweet,  pensive  smile  of  Mary 
89 


THE    LOOSENED    CORD 

rest,  and  to  whom  does  the  Infant 
Saviour  hold  out  his  little  hands  ? 

It  is  the  host,  whose  imagination  has 
been  kindled,  whose  heart  has  been 
touched,  by  the  curious  story  of  the  mir 
acle  which  he  has  heard  to-day  for  the 
first  time.  He  has  found  his  long-lost 
device. 

As  he  passes  out  of  the  church  and 
down  the  village  street,  again  the  great 
river  gleams  and  glows,  the  sunset  sky 
flames  and  burns  with  crimson  light. 
And  as  he  leaves  the  little  town  behind 
him,  now  almost  lost  in  the  purple  mist 
of  twilight,  he  murmurs  to  himself, 
"How  strange  a  transformation — a 
thought  of  beauty  has  become  a  miracle 
of  God  r 


90 


Portrait 


ALEXANDER  W.  DRAKE 
THE  MAN 


I 

A  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHY 

OF  Alexander  Wilson  Drake  if  might 
well  be  said  that  the  enjoyment  of 
natural  and  spiritual  beauty  was  the  con 
trolling  purpose  of  his  life.  To  art  as  a 
career  his  first  thoughts  had  therefore  nat 
urally  turned.  To  acquire  the  necessary 
facility  in  drawing  he  studied  with  August 
Will,  and  also  attended  the  night  classes  at 
the  Cooper  Union.  With  improvement  he 
became  a  student  at  the  National  Academy 
of  Design.  In  both  schools  he  had  for  a  col 
league  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  then  an  ap 
prentice  (to  a  cameo-cutter),  and  seemingly 
unaware  of  being  indentured  to  Fame. 

A  craving  for  excellence  was  instinctive 
with  Mr.  Drake,  and  after  he  had  established 
a  successful  wood-engraving  business  of  his 
own  the  willingness  to  take  vast  trouble  for 
the  slightest  gain  in  quality  was  cultivated  to 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

a  habit.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that 
when  in  midyear,  1870,  the  first  issue  of 
"Scribner's  Monthly"  (now  "The  Century" 
Magazine)  was  prepared,  his  cooperation  was 
sought  by  RicharH  Watson  Gilder,  who  was 
responsible  for  the  art  policy  and  make-up  of 
the  magazine.  A  finer  alliance  of  editorial 
leadership  and  expert  direction  than  was  ob 
tained  in  these  two  men  could  not  be  imag 
ined.  For  forty  years  they  worked  in  per 
fect  unison  and,  with  the  steadfast  aid  and 
counsel  of  Mr.  Theodore  L.  DeVinne,  brought 
about  a  revolution  in  the  art  of  illustration. 

Mr.  Drake  supplied  the  taste  and  steady 
pressure  that  forced  the  advance  in  printing. 
His  leadership  had  a  threefold  quality:  to 
encourage  the  artist  to  find  in  himself  un- 
thought-of  resources  of  truth  and  beauty,  to 
stimulate  the  engraver  to  preserve  the  tone 
and  feeling  of  the  artist  as  well  as  his 
graphic  qualities,  and  to  hold  the  printer  to 
an  adequate  conveyance  to  paper  of  all  that 
had  been  gained  for  art  by  tireless  love  and 
liberal  expense. 

Year  after  year  Mr.  Drake  began  his 
working  day  by  a  visit  to  the  printers,  where 
94 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

the  runs  of  the  previous  day  were  inspected. 
His  criticisms  were  supplications  rather  than 
fault-findings,  and  were  warmed  with  his 
never-failing  humor.  Emulation  was  a  part 
of  the  atmosphere  of  the  place ;  still,  it  could 
happen  that  a  press  crew  would  fall  below 
concert-pitch  or  encounter  a  difficulty  that 
to  them  seemed  trivial.  Such  a  case  merely 
inspired  him  to  increase  his  attention,  and  as 
it  was  impossible  to  evade  him,  a  degree  of 
uneasiness  would  persist  until  the  refractory 
form  was  run  off. 

A  great  leap  forward  was  made  when  it 
was  found  possible  to  transfer  a  drawing  or 
painting  to  the  wood-block  by  means  of  the 
camera.  Thus  a  mechanical  process  en 
larged  the  scope  of  the  artist  in  illustration, 
and  in  a  sense  forced  the  engraver  to  paint 
with  the  burin ;  for  Mr.  Drake  now  demanded 
of  him  not  only  that  he  should  reproduce  the 
body  of  a  picture,  but  also  the  feeling  and 
spirit  which  might  be  called  its  soul.  There 
upon  the  life  of  the  engraver  grew  more  and 
more  complex  and  artistic,  with  the  result 
that  several  of  the  craft  gained  high  distinc 
tion.  Yet  the  aspiring  engravers  were  not 
95 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

allowed  to  hold  the  ground  they  had  gained 
by  skill  and  patience ;  the  half-tone  and  other 
processes  of  transferring  a  picture  to  a  metal 
plate  put  them  out  of  business.  While  Mr. 
Drake  eased  the  decline  of  many  of  them  by 
employing  them  to  trim  and  perfect  the  new 
fangled  metal  plates  and  also  those  used  in 
color  printing,  his  fastidious  care  involved  an 
expense  which  few  publishers  were  willing  to 
assume.  So  the  wood-engravers  as  a  large 
and  important  class  went  the  way  of  the 
world,  save  three  or  four  of  exceptional  tal 
ent,  including  Timothy  Cole,  who  was  then 
producing  his  remarkable  series  of  wood-en 
gravings  of  the  old  masters  and  was  enabled 
to  continue  his  work  with  the  result  that  his 
incomparable  blocks,  engraved  only  for  "The 
Century,"  number  about  two  hundred  and 
thirty. 

After  the  daily  visit  to  the  printers,  Mr. 
Drake's  duties  brought  him  in  touch  with  the 
procession  of  artists,  engravers,  and  plate- 
makers  that  moved  on  in  quiet  deliberation 
from  one  year's  end  to  another.  He  was 
wont  to  convey  his  pictorial  idea  by  a  few 
strokes  of  a  pencil,  and  cautious  artists  would 
96 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

submit  rough  sketches  before  buckling  down 
to  the  final  task.  Often  the  consultation  over 
the  completed  picture  called  for  equal  tact 
from  editor  and  artist.  It  was  at  such  times 
that  Mr.  Drake's  "manifest  kindness  and  un 
varying  gentleness,"  as  one  of  the  most  indi 
vidual  artists  defined  the  manner,  enabled  him 
to  win  cooperation  for  revision  which  a  more 
aggressive  criticism  would  have  lost.  The 
engraved  blocks,  and  later  the  plates,  were 
subjected  to  a  more  minute,  scrutiny  than  the 
drawings,  until  the  engravers  grew  so  used  to 
calls  for  an  improving  touch  here  and  there 
to  brighten  the  effect  or  more  closely  favor 
the  original  that  a  failure  to  ask  for  better 
ment  would  have  seemed  out  of  routine. 
While  tenacious  to  the  point  of  obstinacy  of 
his  views  and  opinions,  he  was  studiously  gen 
tle  in  stating  them,  and  was  loath  to  urge 
them  unless  his  sense  of  duty  was  involved. 

In  1880,  Mr.  Drake  had  his  first  look  at 
the  art  treasures  of  England,  France,  and 
Italy.  The  trip  was  arranged  as  much  for 
the  benefit  of  the  magazine,  an  expectation 
which  was  richly  justified,  as  for  the  rest  and 
pleasure  of  a  hard-worked  enthusiast.  He 
97 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

made  the  acquaintance  of  William  Morris, 
Rossetti,  and  other  noted  English  artists  of 
that  day,  and  in  Italy  he,  with  Robert  Blum, 
was  greeted  and  guided  by  Elihu  Vedder  and 
Charles  Caryl  Coleman ;  he  also  met  Whistler 
in  Venice. 

In  1890,  Mr.  Drake  made  his  second  visit 
to  Europe,  which  began  auspiciously  with  a 
tour  in  Algiers,  Morocco,  and  the  enchanting 
cities  of  Spain.  His  companion  was  his  only 
son,  a  boy  in  his  teens,  who  was  being  initi 
ated  into  the  mysteries  of  art.  Alas!  they 
also  came  in  Spain  to  an  outpost  of  the  great 
mystery,  for  here  the  boy  showed  signs  of 
fever,  and  was  rushed  with  every  possible  pre 
caution  to  a  London  hospital.  After  days 
of  tender  watching  the  youth  was  laid  to  rest 
in  an  English  cemetery,  and  a  little  later  the 
father  found  solace  for  his  sorrow  in  the 
pathetic  expression  of  his  first  poem,  "Ken- 
sal  Green." 

Out  of  that  period  of  introspection  came  a 
short  season  of  literary  creation  which  was 
as  delicate,  significant,  and  individual  as  the 
art  side  of  his  career.  Three  short  stories 
were  published.  He  planned  other  plots  to 
98 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

express  the  thoughts  of  his  teeming,  sensitive 
nature,  but  the  demands  of  his  vocation  for 
bade.  However,  the  three  stories  may  be 
taken  as  a  complete  unfolding  of  a  rare  mind, 
with  an  outlook  and  a  feeling  all  its  own. 
They  could  not  have  been  written  by  any  one 
who  had  not  his  thirst  for  the  beautiful  and 
his  insight  into  the  hidden  springs  of  art. 

To  a  public  that  knew  little  of  his  charm 
ing  personality  and  influential  labors  in  the 
interest  of  art  Mr.  Drake  was  known  chiefly 
as  a  collector.  In  that  field  he  was  distinctly 
a  creator,  for  he  awakened  the  perception 
that  objects  of  common  use  often  enshrine 
the  basic  lineaments  of  beauty.  If  those 
who,  hearing  that  he  was  making  new  collec 
tions,  sometimes  scoffed,  in  the  end  they  were 
forced  to  admire  after  beholding  the  revela 
tion  of  human  ingenuity  and  love  of  grace 
that  was  emphasized  by  the  bringing  together 
of  selected  specimens  of  any  craft  or  art. 
Even  the  simple  pictures  on  the  wall-paper 
used  to  decorate  the  bandboxes  of  a  century 
ago  acquired  esthetic  value  after  Mr.  Drake 
had  had  the  perception,  not  to  mention  cour 
age,  to  frame  some  of  his  duplicates. 
99 


ALEXANDER   W.    DRAKE 

Two  of  his  collections  have  been  kept  to 
gether:  the  forty  little  ships  and  boats  ap 
propriately  enliven  India  House  in  the  old 
shipping  district,  and  the  hundred  bird 
cages  now  ornament  the  kindly  halls  of 
Cooper  Union,  where  the  man  who  had 
brought  them  together  was  first  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  drawing. 

In  1913  ill  health  led  Mr.  Drake  to  retire 
from  the  position  he  had  filled  with  historic 
success  for  forty-three  years.  How  much 
that  meant  to  hundreds  of  artists  and  writers 
was  shown  by  two  dinners  given  in  his  honor. 
More  than  two  hundred  illustrators  and  writ 
ers  joined  in  a  memorable  gathering. 
Shortly  afterward,  on  February  25,  1913, 
four  hundred  members  of  his  art  and  profes 
sional  clubs  joined  in  a  famous  "Dinner  of 
Alexander  Wilson  Drake  and  His  Friends,  at 
the  Aldine  Club."  He  who  had  often  embel 
lished  feasts  to  others  with  amusing  menus 
was  celebrated  in  a  souvenir  of  fifty  pages, 
most  of  them  being  humorous  sketches  by 
prominent  artists,  making  good-natured 
sport  of  the  salient  traits  of  the  editor  and 
collector. 

100 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

Most  men  die  poor,  and  only  a  few  die 
rich;  but  fewer  still  leave  behind  them  so 
much  of  the  remembrance  that  wealth  cannot 

create  as  does  Alexander  Wilson  Drake. 
CLARENCE  CLOUGH  BUEL 

in  the  "Century  Magazine." 


101 


• 

WITH    the    deat: 

thai- 
pel? 

East  Side  of  Dining  Room 

ami  J  to 

rememhr  great    debt    *'! 

• 
the  allied  arts  of  wood-< 

iR/ar 

;>ewed  acknowledgment  i 

If   was  miK I 
il  L-istirif 
wert-  T   .«*W  Georgi- 

i^    Lt        4*  ^-  ...   ;       -.- .-. A^-t  T     a«rl 

;    «C> 

devotion  of  • 

103 


II 

AN  APPRECIATION 

WITH  the  death  of  Alexander  W. 
Drake  there  passes  from  our  sight  a 
figure  so  benignant  and  beloved  that  more 
than  one  friend  must  feel  irresistibly  im 
pelled  to  supplement  with  a  word  of  earnest 
personal  tribute  the  epitome  of  his  career 
printed  in  the  daily  press.  The  main 
achievements  of  his  singularly  useful  life, 
often  heretofore  chronicled  both  in  magazines 
and  newspapers,  have  there  been  recalled  to 
remembrance.  The  great  debt  which  the 
country  owed  to  his  leadership  in  perfecting 
the  allied  arts  of  wood-engraving  and  print 
ing  has  received  fresh  recognition  and  will 
claim  renewed  acknowledgment  in  the  history 
of  American  art. 

But  the  man  himself  was  much  greater 
than  his  triumphs,  varied  and  lasting  as  they 
were.  "Never  elsewhere,"  said  George  W. 
Cable,  "  have  I  seen  so  great  modesty  and 
devotion  of  character  so  unfailingly  combined 
103 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

with  such  masterful  gifts  and  achievements  as 
in  Mr.  Drake  in  the  third  of  a  century  that 
I  have  known  him."  And  with  the  rare  com 
bination  of  qualities  here  set  forth  there 
seemed  no  room  among  them  for  anything 
even  resembling  egotism;  there  was  no  word 
or  thought  of  self.  He  was  content  to  say, 
"My  work  is  my  biography,"  and  he  often 
quoted  that  noble  aphorism,  "The  reward  of 
a  thing  well  done  is  to  have  done  it."  Yet 
even  casual  acquaintances  perceived  or  felt  in 
him  natural  powers  surpassing  all  that  he  ac 
complished  and  exceptional  traits  of  charac 
ter  as  yet  unregistered  in  words. 

For  seldom  if  ever  have  such  positive  quali 
ties  as  a  manly  strength  of  purpose,  untiring 
zeal,  and  unflinching  loyalty  been  cloaked  in 
such  a  gentleness  of  nature  as  in  his  unique 
and  many-sided  personality.  The  truth  is 
that,  deeper  than  all  these  endowments,  he 
had  an  ingrained  love  of  beauty  that  was  to 
him  the  very  breath  of  life.  This  was  the 
foundation  of  his  character  and  the  corner 
stone  of  his  career.  All  his  activities,  in 
deed,  were  tinged  with  the  latent  force  and 
inspiration  of  this  enchantment  of  his  soul. 
104 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

It  was  the  hidden  dynamic  power  that  speed 
ily  made  him  a  connoisseur  in  his  own  special 
field  and  eventually  one  of  the  most  remark 
able  collectors  of  modern  times.  Through 
out  his  many  years  as  the  honored  art  di 
rector  of  "The  Century"  and  "St.  Nicholas" 
magazines  this  love  of  beauty  was  the  incen 
tive  to  a  tireless  patience  in  striving  to  attain 
at  any  cost  the  utmost  possible  result  or  the 
long-coveted  perfection.  To  see  him  with  an 
engraver's  proof  in  his  hand  or  bending  over 
a  first  sheet  from  the  press  was  to  behold  an 
artist  at  work  upon  a  task  he  loved ;  he  never 
spared  himself  in  the  effort  to  insure  a  flaw 
less  rendering  of  a  fellow-artist's  creation. 
Even  in  drawings  submitted  to  him  by  young 
illustrators  he  sought  and  never  failed  to  note 
and  encourage  that  "touch  of  real  art,"  as  he 
phrased  it,  that  he  dearly  prized,  and  his 
trained  discrimination  gave  added  strength 
and  comradeship  to  his  relations  with  paint 
ers  and  members  of  the  larger  world  of  art. 
They  felt  that  Mr.  Drake's  taste  and  knowl 
edge  were  well-nigh  infallible,  and  their  trust 
in  him  was  deepened  because  they  knew  the 
absolute  integrity  of  his  judgment.  With 
105 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

all  his  gentleness,  there  was  never  the  least 
taint  of  capitulation  in  any  verdict  that  he 
rendered.  Here  no  compromise  was  possible, 
and  his  loyalty  to  his  ideals  was  as  sacred  as 
his  conscience. 

Of  course  the  graphic  arts  alone  could  not 
satisfy  him;  they  were  but  the  vestibule  to 
the  temple  of  color,  form,  and  music.  All 
beauty  was  his  heritage,  and  to  him  collecting 
was  not,  as  to  many,  a  fad:  it  was  a  quiet, 
perpetual,  glorified  enthusiasm  that  enriched 
immeasurably  his  own  life  and  thousands  of 
other  lives  by  its  sure  instinct  for  the  genuine 
in  art.  It  would  take  a  volume  to  do  justice 
to  any  of  his  collections,  but  the  range,  vari 
ety,  and  extent  of  the  rich  spoil  he  gathered 
are  well  known  to  the  art  world  and  the  pub 
lic. 

Again,  no  visitor  needs  to  be  reminded  of 
the  charm  and  distinction  of  his  home, 
wherein  was  gathered  so  much  fascinating 
and  endlessly  interesting  treasure-trove, — 
"where  color  glowed  unglittering,  and  the  soul 
of  visible  things  showed  silent  happiness." 
Each  individual  object  was,  in  truth,  a  part 
of  his  life.  He  loved  it.  It  was,  in  its  de- 
106 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

gree,  a  symbol  of  all  that  beauty  meant  to 
him;  and  in  the  mass  the  whole  rich  array  was 
softened  into  a  single,  mellow  harmony  that 
thrilled  the  beholder  with  the  sense  of  beauty 
in  sumptuous  repose. 

His  gentleness  was  not  that  of  manner 
only,  but  was  the  natural  expression  of  a 
deeper  kindliness  of  heart.  With  his  associ 
ates  in  daily  tasks  there  was  no  end  to  the 
courtesies,  great  or  small,  that  he  constantly 
rendered  not  only  whenever  opportunity  pre 
sented  itself,  but  frequently  when  the  oppor 
tunity  was  of  his  own  making.  Whenever 
good  or  bad  fortune  befell,  he  was  first  to  of 
fer  congratulations  or  sympathy ;  and  by 
countless  ingenious  and  original  acts  of  kind 
ness  he  lit  up  the  routine  of  crowded  hours, 
and  made  smiles  resume  their  proper  sove 
reignty  on  tired  or  troubled  faces.  His  very 
presence  brought  with  it  a  sense  of  cheerful 
tranquillity,  for  it  always  meant  that  a  jest 
or  story  was  imminent,  or  some  quaint  by 
play  of  comment  that  left  one  refreshed  and 
gladdened;  and  many  silent  benedictions  fol 
lowed  him  as  he  dispensed  these  sunny,  ex 
hilarating  greetings  from  day  to  day. 
107 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

Every  least  gift  to  his  friends  bore  the 
royal  stamp  of  beauty,  while  in  the  manner  of 
its  bestowal  there  was  always  some  quaint  or 
tender  touch  of  surprise  that  added  charm 
and  made  it  doubly  precious. 

As  for  the  assistance  of  every  sort — ad 
vice,  encouragement,  patient,  kindly  criti 
cism,  and  financial  aid — which  he  gave  to 
artists  and  others  in  depression  or  necessity, 
no  one  knows,  or  ever  will  know,  the  full  rec 
ord  of  his  benefactions.  "Think  of  the  help 
ing  hand  he  has  held  out  to  hundreds  of 
struggling  young  beginners  in  art  and  let 
ters  !"  writes  a  grateful  member  of  his  corps 
of  illustrators. 

He  had  a  genius  for  friendship.  With  his 
intimates  he  fulfilled  Emerson's  definition  of 
a  friend  as  "one  with  whom  we  can  think 
aloud";  and  as  a  well-known  artist  has  de 
clared,  "To  good  stories  or  fine  music  he 
would  listen  till  the  gray  hours  of  the  morn 
ing,  and,  if  the  opportunity  offered,  empty 
his  purse  to  help  a  comrade  in  need."  But 
he  exercised  also  a  strong  and  subtle  mag 
netism  for  men  of  most  diverse  and  seemingly 
unrelated  types.  They  were  drawn  to  him 
108 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

with  gentle  compulsion,  and  he  had  the  power 
to  make  them  sharers  of  his  own  joy  in  the 
things  he  loved.  In  proof  of  the  general  es 
teem  in  which  he  was  held,  it  may  be  men 
tioned  that,  when  his  health  began  to  fail  and 
he  felt  compelled  to  resign  from  five  clubs,  he 
was  immediately  made  an  honorary  member 
for  life  by  every  one  of  them.  His  joy  in 
friends  and  their  affectionate  pride  in  him 
will  endure  indeed  among  the  recollections 
that  are  linked  with  life's  best  moments. 

In  England  he  might  well  have  been 
knighted  in  recognition  of  his  services  to  the 
allied  arts  of  engraving  and  printing,  for,  as 
Joseph  Pennell  says,  "He  has  done  more  for 
the  advancement  of  illustration  than  any  man 
living."  In  France  his  collections,  if  kept 
together,  would  have  established  another  goal 
for  art  lovers  in  many  ways  resembling  the 
Musee  Carnavalet.  And  in  these  war- 
blinded  times,  when  the  maddened  lords  of 
destruction  are  casting  into  ruin  the  glorious 
fanes  and  towers  that  have  illumined  many 
generations,  his  friends,  and  America  itself, 
should  be  more  than  ever  grateful  for  this 
ardent  devotee  of  beauty  whose  soul  was  bent 
109 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

upon  the  salvage  from  oblivion  of  every  least 
relic  of  art. 

Back  of  all  the  grace  and  loveliness  that 
charmed  him  in  material  things,  he  saw  as 
clearly  the  spiritual  values  they  represented, 
the  love  that  had  gone  into  the  making  of 
them. 

It  is  ideals  that  determine  character.  We 
are  known  at  last  by  the  mental  pictures  that 
we  cherish.  Great  thoughts,  noble  harmo 
nies,  love  of  beauty,  friendship — no  worshiper 
at  any  of  these  shrines  go  unrewarded,  and 
the  inestimable  largess  they  bestow  brings 
with  it  always  some  full  measure  of  their  time 
liness  and  spiritual  power.  With  Mr.  Drake, 
books  and  music  were  among  the  richest, 
most  enchanting  satisfactions  of  his  leisure ; 
but  the  love  of  beauty  was  a  transcendent, 
vital  force  that  from  first  to  last  dominated 
his  whole  being.  He  answered  to  its  every 
call,  and,  like  a  joyous  child,  followed  where 
it  led.  For  reward,  it  filled  his  daily  vision, 
his  home,  his  spirit,  with  opalescent  harmo 
nies,  and  his  later  years  with  "honor,  love, 
obedience,  troops  of  friends."  More:  it 
made  him  its  revealer,  its  interpreter,  who  for 
110 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

many  others  had  opened  eye  and  heart  to  the 
magical  beauty  that  lies  hidden  all  about  us 
under  the  dust  of  common  things  and  in  the 
passing  hour. 

To  those  who  knew  him  best  his  high  ideal 
ism  and  transparent  kindliness,  his  personal 
charm  and  warm,  indulgent  comradeship, 
will  remain  in  memory,  as  they  were  in  real 
ity,  influences  of  incalculable  beauty  and 
beneficence.  That  he  reached  the  allotted 
span  of  life  with  scarce-diminished  vigor  and 
as  young  at  heart  as  ever  is  indeed  cause  for 
gratitude;  but  it  is  from  finely  sensitive  na 
tures  such  as  his  that  we  learn  the  poignant 
truth  of  Emerson's  saying,  "Life  is  not  long 
enough  for  Art — not  long  enough  for 

Friendship." 

WILLIAM  FATAL  CLARKE 

in  the  "Century  Magazine." 


Ill 


Ill 


West  Side  of  Dining  Room 


qua'  are  not  usual  in  t 

and 

tht 
couir 

I  *bnl!  no! 

frbi*  of  wood-engre< 

to  v.  >.  gave  new 

and  iK-t  ••  t*  atid  extinction  stamJ 

j,r<  ^Tftver  Timothy  Cole  aid 

that  of  one  «xr  iww  worthy  associates  ;  or  of 
his  exp]  -f  painting  and  scuiptu 

113 


Ill 

A  WORD  OF  TRIBUTE 

To   the  Editor  of  the  New   York  Evening 
Post: 

SIR:  I  am  sure  that  in  the  throng  that 
attended  the  beautiful  service  for  Mr. 
Drake  at  the  Church  of  the  Ascension  to-day 
there  were  many  who  would  like  to  say  a 
public  word  of  tribute  to  the  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart  that  endeared  him  to  them — 
qualities  which  are  not  usual  in  themselves 
and  certainly  are  rare  in  combination,  and 
which  in  this  instance  have  gone  far  to  enrich 
the  life  of  this  community  and  of  the  whole 
country. 

I  shall  not  speak  of  Mr.  Drake's  service  in 
the  promotion  of  the  art  of  wood-engraving, 
to  which  his  experiments  gave  new  vitality, 
and  between  which  and  extinction  stands  the 
life  of  our  great  engraver  Timothy  Cole  and 
that  of  one  or  two  worthy  associates;  or  of 
his  exploitation  of  painting  and  sculptor  by 
113 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

the  presentation  through  the  "Century,"  in 
conjunction  with  Mr.  Gilder,  of  their  finest 
examples.  These  are  already  matters  of  rec 
ord,  and  speak  for  him  who  never  spoke  for 
himself.  Enough  to  say  that  if  we  had  had, 
as  in  France,  a  National  Bureau  of  Fine 
Arts,  Mr.  Drake  would  have  been  the  one 
man  most  fitted,  by  his  ideality  and  his  force 
of  practical  administration,  to  be  the  director 
of  it. 

I  wish  to  speak  only  of  two  points — first, 
the  comprehensiveness,  the  severity,  and  the 
loyalty  of  his  artistic  taste.  Here  was  a 
man  who  loved  beauty  as  a  principle,  seeking 
it  out  with  a  gentle  enthusiasm,  of  joy,  rather 
than  stopping  to  rail  at  our  abounding  ugli 
ness.  He  made  no  compromise  with  the  in 
tegrity  of  his  exquisite  taste;  no  personal 
consideration  operated  to  lower  his  standard, 
which  ran  in  little  things  as  in  great.  He 
felt  that  if  America  shall  ever  attain  a  clas 
sical  sense  of  beauty  out  of  which  shall  come 
an  era  of  art  of  great  worth,  it  will  be  by  a 
rigid  cultivation  of  taste  in  every  depart 
ment  of  life.  In  his  more  than  forty  years 
of  close  touch  with  the  artists  of  his  time, 
114 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

while  his  own  sensibilities  drew  much  from 
them,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  gave  more  than 
he  received.  His  feeling  for  color,  propor 
tion,  and  form  seemed  faultless,  and  his  un 
recorded  comments  on  works  of  art  would 
have  made  one  of  those  volumes  that  always 
seem  more  precious  because  they  have  never 
been  written. 

The  other  point,  which  it  is  wholesome  to 
accentuate,  is  the  constancy  and  abundance 
of  his  personal  service.  Of  those  who  filled 
the  church  to-day  I  doubt  if  there  was  one 
who  had  not  received  from  him  some  special, 
often  unusual,  mark  of  his  friendliness  in  gift, 
counsel,  or  sympathy.  To  quote  Shake 
speare,  he  was 

the  kindest  man, 

The  best-conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesy. 

This  radiance  of  good  will  is  not  a  posthu 
mous  fancy ;  it  was  the  first  thought  of  him 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  met  him  and  it 
found  expression  at  the  several  memorable 
dinners  in  his  honor  given  at  the  time  of  his 
retirement  from  his  active  and  loyal  service 
of  the  "Century."  He  befriended  many  a 
115 


ALEXANDER   W.    DRAKE 

struggling  draughtsman  and  engraver,  espe 
cially  in  the  later  years  of  his  editorship 
when  new  fashions  in  illustration  and  the 
abandonment  of  engraving  gave  poignancy  to 
their  struggle  for  life.  We  who  were  associ 
ated  with  him  knew  of  some  of  these  generosi 
ties  by  inference,  for  such  good  actions  were 
done  by  stealth  only  to  be  found  out  by  acci 
dent.  But  what  was  as  open  as  the  day  was 
the  gentleness  of  his  sympathy.  The  French 
say  that  there  is  no  real  friendship  without 
some  tenderness  in  it,  and  this  moving  quality 
he  put  into  even  casual  courtesies,  so  that 
one  left  his  presence  with  an  access  of  self- 
respect  and  a  kindling  of  brotherhood.  I 
wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  define  more  ac 
curately  this  lovable  quality,  this  charming 
atmosphere  of  the  man.  It  is  the  highest 
tribute  to  him  that  his  friends  and  even  his 
acquaintances  who  may  happen  to  read  these 
lines  will  divine  what  I  am  so  inadequately 
endeavoring  to  convey. 

Whatever  of  beauty  there  may  be  in  re 
serve  after  the  wondrous  beauty  of  this  world 
few  could  be  better  qualified  to  enjoy  and  ap- 
116 


ALEXANDER    W.    DRAKE 

predate  it  than  this  sensitive  spirit,  who  in 
his  long  life  of  happiness  and  devotion  gave 
to  a  multitude  the  true  meaning  of  art. 


ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


February  7,  1916. 


117 


